


Returning the Favor

by GhostofBeltanesPast



Series: Pining Fools [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Courtship Traditions, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Festivals, First Dates, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Angst, Panic Attacks, Shopping, Summer Solstice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBeltanesPast/pseuds/GhostofBeltanesPast
Summary: Reader gets a surprise visit, thanks to Captain Drautos' excellent life advice.Things, of course, don't go according to plan for anyone.
Relationships: Nyx Ulric & Reader, Nyx Ulric/Reader
Series: Pining Fools [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063547
Comments: 67
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer applies. I don't own FFXV. This is just playtime in the sandbox.

You stare at the figure standing in your front door, any words you would have said suddenly lost.  
  
He smiles with just the slightest hint of tension -- you try not to notice how his eyes crinkle just slightly, the genuineness making your heart ache in record time.  
  
“Hey, uh. Thought I’d return the favor.”  
  
It takes you a minute to realize it’s a joke, that he’s at your door because he’s here to visit.  
  
There is a part of you (not a smart part) that wants to slam the door shut and lock it and hide and never go out again. He knows where you _live_! And sure, you gave him your address, forever ago, but.  
  
But.  
  
You didn’t think he’d visit you; that’s not how this _works_.  
  
Your bond with him is a strange one entirely composed of your hopeless and pathetic longing, only conducted in the darkest of hours. It does _not_ involve him _here_ , on your doorstep on a warm, clear afternoon with the sun picking up the faintest red highlights in his hair and bathing him in light.  
  
It doesn’t involve this perfect moment.  
  
And it never, _never_ involves him looking at you like this, eyes soft and focused and something else you can’t quite figure out.  
  
You twine your hands together -- glancing over your shoulder to make sure the cat is still asleep on the sofa and not going to make a break for the door -- and search for any response that wouldn’t sound completely incompetent. Should you invite him in? You should, right? That would be polite, but…  
  
As soon as you think about it, you feel cold all over.  
  
Your house is _not_ fit to be seen, now or ever, and he’s both the last person you ever want to see it, and also the one person you want to have around most, all of the time.  
  
There’s absolutely no way you can let him inside your house.  
  
You will _die_ if he sees the inside of your house. He will hate you and he will tell you that and you will die on the spot, and your cat will have to eat your corpse and no one will be happy ever again, _especially_ you and your cat because you will be dead.  
  
It’s not til he clears his throat awkwardly, shifting in place, that you realize you’ve been standing in the doorway, probably staring at him like a total and utter freak, while lost in thought.  
  
But while you brace yourself for rejection or at least for him to leave, he proffers something instead.  
  
“Here,” he says, with that same crinkle-eyed smile, “these are for you.”  
  
They’re flowers.  
  
Sweet little pink flowers, the petals crinkly around the edges as if they’d been pinked with shears -- you’ve loved these since you were a little girl, when the flower lady at the shopping center would give you one each time she saw you. It made you feel so grown-up, and they’d been your favorites ever since.  
  
You blink back the tears that threaten. He _remembers_? You told him that...gods, that was ages ago, months and months.  
  
He coughs slightly. “I, uh. I wanted to thank you. For everything. You’re a great cook, you know? And your company is…” Nyx shoves his hands in his pockets, shifting again --  
  
And suddenly you realize he’s wearing a shirt. A tidy button-up, with the sleeves halfway rolled up...just enough to see the thin black line around his left forearm.  
  
Your mouth goes dry at the sight.  
  
While you’re busy staring at his arm, he continues, apparently unperturbed.  
  
“I really appreciate you visiting. It’s nice to talk, and--”  
  
It’s too awkward. He’s so _nice_ , making this effort and coming all this way, just to thank you for doing what anyone would if they had the chance…  
  
You take a deep breath and step backward, offering a shaky smile. “Would, um, would you like to come in?” Your heart feels like it’ll beat right out of your chest, but for him, you’d face much worse than this.  
  
“Sorry about the mess,” you warn as he steps inside. “I’ll put these in some water...can I get you anything?”  
  
You bite your lip, mentally running through what you can offer him. “You can, ah, go sit if you like? I’ll be right there.”  
  
He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t gawk either.  
  
Even though there are piles of takeout boxes covering the table and other surfaces, and one side of the sink is entirely full of dirty dishes that have been there for...well, longer than you like to think about. You don’t dare look at the state of the stove, or you’ll burst into tears -- you can already feel them threatening.  
  
But he leans a hip against the counter nearby, only having glanced at everything briefly before focusing on you again, watching as you bustle around the tiny kitchen.  
  
He’s right next to the cabinet with your nicer glassware, including one of your two vases...but you can’t _tell_ him that, you can’t tell him to move, that would be _rude_ \--  
  
“I’ll have whatever you do,” he says into the increasingly-tense silence.  
  
You nod eagerly. “Right! Okay.” That’s easy. You can do that.  
  
You turn to the fridge.  
  
And reality crashes back in; you _can’t_ do that. You don’t know what you want. You don’t remember how to decide what you want. Drinks? You don’t think you could name a single one. Every possibility flees your brain, and you stare at the plain white door as it mocks you.  
  
It only takes a moment for him to take pity on you, touching your shoulder gently. “You okay? It’s fine if you don’t--”  
  
You whirl, smiling and hoping you don't look as frantic as you feel. “No, it’s fine! Just spacing out, sorry.”  
  
There’s no way you’re going to admit what just happened, that you’ve panicked because you can’t think of what to drink so you can’t get him anything because he wants what you’re going to have.  
  
It’s only the knowledge that the flowers will start to wilt if you don’t hurry and put them in some water that gives you the strength to open the fridge and grab the first thing you can reach.  
  
You look down at the prize you retrieved...  
  
It’s juice.  
  
You’re not in the mood for juice at all.  
  
But juice is what you grabbed, and by the gods, you are going to drink juice to save your flowers and make sure Nyx has something to drink. And maybe in the process, you can stop freaking out about how _he is in your house, right now_.  
  
You scoot delicately past him, trying to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible without looking weird about it. “‘Scuse me…” you murmur.  
  
He moves, polite as ever, and you push up onto your tiptoes to reach for the pair of glasses. They’re in reach easily enough, and you set them on the counter beside the juice, but...the vase might be a little more difficult. It’s on the top shelf, and sometimes, if you stretch _just_ right and the Astrals smile on you, you can reach it -- not that you have cause to do so often enough to move it lower, but you’ve lived here enough years to get flowers at least a few times, from friends or relatives or coworkers.  
  
Today, it seems, the gods have forsaken you. Each attempt to reach the vase pushes it back further onto the shelf, making you swear under your breath.  
  
Just as you’re about to go in search of the step-stool you’re pretty sure you left in the bathroom last, there’s a warm body pressed to your back, leaning over you.  
  
You place both hands on the counter, staring at them hard while you try to remember how to breathe.  
  
It is _afternoon_. Daylight hours, light filtering through your sheer curtains, the time when you’d usually be home alone trying to convince your wretched brain to let you do at least _something_ useful today instead of spending the whole day online watching videos to drown out the feelings of inadequacy and shame and fear that pervaded the rest of your life.  
  
This is not a time when you should be in this position.  
  
But today is different, it seems, and you barely have time to comprehend what’s actually happening before Nyx leans over you to set the vase on the counter.  
  
You can feel his breath ghosting over your neck, just barely, and you swallow the longing to feel his lips on your skin. There will be time later to think about this moment.  
  
And oh, you’ll think about this, when you’re alone tonight. You’ll lay in bed, face red with shame, one hand between your thighs, working yourself over to the thought of what could happen if he’d just stay right where he is.  
  
You wish he wouldn’t back away. You wish he’d just stay, keeping you pinned against the counter, lean body scorchingly hot against your back, even through your sweater -- and speaking of warm, how long have you been overheating? You can barely breathe; you can even feel the heat all the way up your face and neck, and out to your ears.  
  
But he steps back, of course, and stands across the kitchen. It’s not much distance, but it’s enough for the message to come through loud and clear.  
  
And that’s right, that’s the way things should be; he came to thank you. Just a nice, friendly visit. You’ve got no business getting all hot over so simple a gesture as him grabbing a vase you can’t reach.  
  
The sick feeling is back in the pit of your stomach, and for a moment you almost want to make some excuse to go outside. Go to a store, maybe, and jog as much of the way there as you can, just to feel something that’s not... _this_. The sun on your face, and the breath burning in your lungs, and the aching of your legs that are so unused to running. Something _different_.  
  
You turn toward the door, almost ready to do just that, when pink catches your eye. The flowers are still in the sink, waiting for you, and is it your imagination, or do they look a bit sadder?  
  
It’s stupid, surely, to get so emotional as to personify flowers and worry so much about them wilting a tiny bit, but _you_ feel sad and wilted, too.  
  
Maybe you can’t fix yourself, but you can at least fix up these flowers.  
  
So you set to it.

* * *

Nyx can’t help but stare. She looks _perfect_ , better than he could ever have imagined, in a baggy sweater and a tight pair of skinny jeans, hair still slightly damp from the shower she must have taken earlier.  
  
He’d wondered at first when she met him at the door if she was uncomfortable that he’d come to her, this time, but...he supposes it must be the clutter that bothers her.  
  
It leaves an ache in his chest -- she’s been spending her time after work taking care of him, hasn’t she? Worrying about him, making him dinner, whether or not she had the energy…  
  
As nervous as she is, he wants to pull her into his arms. Wishes he could hold her close and pet her hair and tell her how he knows she’s trying her best, and it’s okay, no one’s perfect. Astrals, he wants to be the one who comforts her. About this, and everything else.  
  
He can’t do that, though; she sneaks glances at him now and then, but mostly keeps her eyes down, and never comes any closer than she has to.  
  
So he follows her to the kitchen and leans against the counter, far enough to be respectful and not loom, but close enough at hand to...well, he doesn’t really know. Help, he supposes, not that there’s anything to help with.  
  
Or, at least, he doesn’t _expect_ there to be.  
  
When she strains to reach the vase, there’s a part of him that jumps to attention -- mentally, not physically, although he hates to admit there’s a twitch _there_ , too, at the thought of pressing himself against her -- as there’s finally some way to be useful to her.  
  
The problem, of course, is that he has to press himself against her, the one thing he wants most to do right now, and the one thing he’s most afraid of doing.  
  
She might think he’s coming on to her, she might get angry...gods, he hopes she doesn’t think he’s trying to take advantage of the situation. But the way she’s reaching for the vase, he’s scared it’ll fall and break, and she’ll get hurt.  
  
No, he _needs_ to do this.  
  
So he steps in close behind her, one hand braced against the side of the cabinet, and the other reaching to grab the vase -- and trying not to think too much about how he’s bracketed her in against the counter, how her soft body is _right there_ , how as soon as he sets the vase down, his hands will be free to touch her.  
  
Nyx takes a deep breath.  
  
Sets the vase carefully on the counter, even though it means leaning over her more.  
  
Lets go.  
  
And steps back, hands empty and trousers uncomfortably tight.  
  
She seems lost in thought for a moment, back to him still, but it doesn’t take long for her to start tending to the flowers. Running water into the sink, clipping the stems, and arranging them; it hurts a bit to watch. No one’s done this in front of him since…  
  
...since his mom. Back home in Galahd, when things were still okay, before the accident. Back when his dad used to bring her home flowers each week, like clockwork. Mostly just little bundles of wildflowers picked from the side of the road, sometimes something nicer for anniversaries or occasions. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about how he used to sit on the counter and watch, awed by how she seemed to know exactly what to do.  
  
He clears his throat. “You, uh. Might wanna put that on a lower shelf next time.” The laugh is a bit forced, but at least he tries.  
  
She doesn’t say anything at first, and he’s terrified for a moment that she might be angry (or worse, upset), but she nods; as he watches her, there’s a telltale flush visible along her neck and ears, even if her face is mostly hidden.  
  
“...thanks.”  
  
He grips the counter until his knuckles turn white. Her voice is so tiny, so nervous...maybe, maybe he’s got a shot after all? If she’s _this_ flustered by him, maybe she does want him after all.  
  
One thing he knows, at least, is that he owes the Captain for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for the threequel! This one will be multi-chapter as Nyx makes some valiant efforts, Reader does her best as well, and Crowe and Libertus show up to help(?).
> 
> There won't be any smut or serious lewds (that'll be a separate omake later on), but I can promise there will be a happy ending, and some actual resolution. This should be about 4-5 chapters long, I think.
> 
> S/o to queenhomeslice, Lady_Kaie, and lovely_trash32 for inspiring the direction this series took. Y'all are so good, I can't even.
> 
> Also worth noting, there's nothing said in canon about what happened to Nyx's parents, as far as I'm aware, and we only have the one picture of what's presumably his whole family (dad? included). For the purposes of this fic, I'm going with some kind of accidental death to explain why his dad wasn't around by the time he was a young adult (which is implied by his flashbacks having to do with Selena and his mom, but no one else). This is totally an arbitrary personal choice, but it's also not likely to come up much either way.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please know that any kudos and comments are much appreciated, even if the comment is just an emoji. <3 All affirmation is good affirmation!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyx didn't come visit just to bring Reader flowers and thank her for the food...he's a man on a mission.
> 
> Too bad Reader didn't get the memo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer applies. I don't own FFXV. You know the drill.

It doesn’t take long for you to settle into the rhythm of trimming the stems, relaxing enough to (almost) forget that Nyx is still watching, _right there_.   
  
You hum under your breath, swaying slightly in place. It feels good to do something productive, even if it’s small, and the flowers will look lovely on the table. Thankfully, you trained Mister to stay off the table as a kitten, and he’s remained polite enough in his old age...even if he does have a tendency to climb into the linen cabinet (apparently a prime napping spot), and tries to make a break to get outside any time you open the front door.   
  
As you finish arranging the flowers, you wonder if he’ll like Nyx...you hope he won’t be standoffish for too long.   
  
When you turn to the kitchen table, you realize there’s a problem -- the kitchen table is covered in boxes.   
  
You bite your lip. Plan B, then...but what’s plan B? Mister doesn’t knock things over _deliberately_ , but he has a habit of rubbing on things even when they’re unstable. His preference to perch on tall things doesn’t help, either.   
  
Finally you settle on one of the bookshelves as the best option; it’s around shoulder-height, too high to jump to from the floor for him, but not high enough to warrant parkouring there from the other furniture.   
  
You can hear Nyx follow you back to the living room. It’s not exactly that you’re less nervous, now, but he’s been here for at least ten minutes and he hasn’t run screaming. He even got the vase down for you. So it’s probably okay, you figure. At least your messy house hasn’t ruined your...whatever this is.   
  
It’s probably not what could be called friendship, right?   
  
You squint at the vase, arranging it on the bookshelf and turning it this way and that, trying to get it _just_ right --   
  
And behind you, you hear Nyx _coo_ , the sound almost painfully sweet.   
  
You turn to see him crouching, Mister winding back and forth in front of him, reveling in the attention Nyx lavishes on him.   
  
“Oh, that’s Mister,” you say, cursing how stupid you sound. There’s a tag on his collar, and he’s in the middle of doing his best to climb into Nyx’s lap to nuzzle his face -- the lucky little bastard -- so you’re pretty sure his name is obvious by now.   
  
Nyx just laughs, thankfully, letting the cat push him over until he’s cross-legged on the floor with entirely the wrong kind of pussy in his lap.   
  
“Guess he’s pretty friendly, huh?”   
  
He grins up at you despite the feline onslaught, bright and boyish and so perfect that for a moment all you can do is nod dumbly and sit on the floor as well.   
  
You bite back a grin as Mister clambers halfway onto one shoulder, having spotted a prize on his new personal jungle-gym.   
  
“Oh, only with the biggest suckers…” Have you ever teased Nyx, before? You’re not sure you’ve ever come close enough to having the confidence; maybe you really are starting to relax more, watching your cat groom the shaved side of his head without any real worries.   
  
His face pinches into a frown at the odd feeling, but he doesn’t move the cat...and as you watch his expressions flow through perplexity to resignation to amusement, you can’t help the chuckle that escapes, even if you do cover your mouth immediately and avert your eyes, trying to look as innocent as possible in your contemplation of the opposite wall.   
  
“Are you laughing at me?” He asks with mock-annoyance. “And after I came all this way to ask you something important...for shame, right, Mister?”   
  
The attempt to get your cat on his side earns him a headbutt from his new best friend, which he takes as dramatically as possible. “Oh! Defending her honor, huh?...guess she’s in good hands after all.”   
  
He pauses and adds teasingly, “Or...paws.”   
  
You’re pretty sure your heart stopped beating a couple minutes ago, around the time he got comfortable on the floor with your cat; the playfulness was just too much to bear, even then. But now Nyx is just a few feet away, watching you with the softest gaze and petting your cat, and saying silly things, and you will think about this moment for the rest of your life, you just know it.   
  
You have to do something.   
  
You have to change the topic.   
  
“So...you said you wanted to ask me something?” You spare a prayer that maybe you won’t look as stiff as you feel right now. “What’s up?”   
  
He doesn’t answer right away, suddenly _very_ focused on Mister.   
  
Your mouth goes dry. Maybe he’s come to ask you not to come back to visit? It did seem a little weird for him to come all this way to tell you thanks, and he did bring you flowers...people normally only bring flowers for an occasion, right? You only get flowers on momentous occasions, it’s not something people do often in Insomnia. Usually when you leave a job or something.   
  
Shit, come to think of it, maybe that’s why he wasn’t worried about your house? Because he’s never going to see you again, so it doesn’t matter how much of a mess you are the rest of the time? Oh gods, you hadn’t even considered this might be goodbye forever, but now that you’re thinking about it, you can feel the tears threatening, and--   
  
You never poured the juice, you realize.   
  
It’s the perfect distraction.   
  
Just a few seconds, so that you can compose yourself and listen to him calmly as he tells you it’s over and he doesn’t want to see you again. Okay.   
  
You push yourself up as fast as you can, not looking at him at all. “Sorry, just remembered I never poured the juice! I’ll be back in a minute, just hold that thought!” Do you sound too cheerful? Is it really obvious how forced it is?   
  
Oh, Six, why didn’t you think of that sooner?   
  
You can hear the “Uh, hold on--” behind you, but you bustle into the kitchen without pausing, willing your hands to stop shaking so you can at least avoid fucking up while pouring juice. You really don’t want to fuck up any more today…   
  
“Hey, nothing’s fucked up, okay? _____? It’s okay, I promise.”   
  
You must have been talking to yourself, you suppose -- and Nyx followed you to the kitchen again, at exactly the wrong moment.   
  
He takes the carton from your trembling hands with the greatest care and sets it back on the counter, despite your protests. “Hey, no, c’mere. It’s fine. I don’t need juice, it’s alright.”   
  
You sniff, as the tears finally start to fall.   
  
“But...the juice. It’s been out too long, I gotta-”   
  
You try to dodge as he takes your hands in his own, but it’s clear that he’s not having it.   
  
“Nope. No juice.” He sighs. “I will buy you more juice if it spoils in the next five minutes, but we’re gonna go sit on the couch right now, and the juice will wait. Okay?”   
  
To his credit, he at least waits for your nod before leading you from the kitchen. You don’t dare look at his face, the possibilities of what you might see too terrifying to even consider. He sounds tense, and tense is bad. Tense could be angry, and you don’t think you can stand that.   
  
You sit on the couch compliantly, hunching in on yourself. It puts you in prime face-licking territory as soon as Mister invites himself into your lap -- he’s always been like this when you cried, and you’re grateful that he cares so much. Animals have been a refuge for you since you were a kid, safer and kinder to you than most people.   
  
You bite your lip.   
  
There haven’t been very many kind people; at least more than superficially so. Plenty of folks were polite, but Insomnia wasn’t exactly known for being a warm, cozy kind of place, and moving from the boonies to the big city in your teens made you an outcast _real_ quick, as you found out too late that everything you liked was old fashioned (and not in the good way).   
  
Mister’s spotted coat blurs in and out of focus as tears well up and fall, but you don’t _dare_ look up. You can’t. There’s no way. Even if you had wanted to, which you don’t, you just can’t.   
  
But you feel rough fingertips brush the side of your damp cheek, as Nyx tucks your hair behind your ear, and suddenly you’re not sure you can even stay in the room. Your whole chest _aches_ like getting kicked by a chocobo all over again, and all you can do is try to stammer out an apology.   
  
He shushes you, depositing Mister back on the floor gently before cupping your cheeks in his callused palms.   
  
You’ve felt his hands on your body plenty of times, but he’s never touched you like this. Never in the daylight, never so _tenderly_ .   
  
You try to choke back the sob that threatens. Truthfully, though, you know it’s no use. You’ve broken down completely, and there’s no getting out of this now. As much as you hate it. The only way to avoid this would be to flee to the bathroom and lock yourself in, and even then you’re pretty sure he’d just wait outside the door until you came out.   
  
“‘Cmon, look at me, please? You can tell me what’s wrong. I won’t take it personally, I _swear_ .” As if the quiet fervor in his voice weren’t enough, the very idea that you might be upset with him…   
  
...you can’t let it go unchallenged. You can’t let him think this is his fault, when it’s _you_ who’s at fault.   
  
It takes a few seconds to work up the courage, but you finally raise your chin, scrubbing at your face with the sleeve of your sweater and grimacing through the tears. “It’s- It’s not _you_ .” you choke out. “I just…”   
  
He strokes your hair, frowning. “I can go, if you need.” The words are soft, and he doesn’t sound happy about the idea at all…   
  
You bite your lip.   
  
That might be better. To just let him go, so he doesn’t have to stay and wait for you to calm down before he tells you he doesn’t want to see you again.   
  
Swallowing roughly, you stare at your own lap and give your response.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sorry about the cliffhanger, although I'll be honest -- it's also kind of satisfying to anticipate what Kaie in particular will have to say lol. You'll get another chapter tomorrow, probably, so you won't be waiting long.
> 
> I didn't expect the direction this took, really, and I hadn't planned to break where I did, but it sure is a thing that happened. Poor Reader, making all the wrong assumptions...but she'll learn. And shortly.
> 
> Next chapter it'll be Nyx's turn to give his thoughts; we'll fill in a bit of what happened in this chapter from his POV, continuing to the all-important question he has for our dear Reader. So stay tuned, and make sure you're subbed if you want updates right away when the next chapter drops. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyx POV for chapter 2.
> 
> He sure does have a lot of feelings about Reader, and he'd be a lot happier if he could figure out when and how to convey them to her...thankfully, he's making at least a bit of progress in that arena as time goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I don't own FFXV or any part of Square Enix, and I make no money from this.

Nyx could watch this forever. He wants to see it everyday, _____ in the kitchen, swaying and humming something soft and sweet, smiling to herself as she works.  
  
 _Astrals_ , she’s beautiful like this. He bites his lip, holding back the words that threaten to fall off his tongue.  
  
‘I love you’, he wants to say. ‘You’re stunning, gorgeous, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen’ -- but he can’t, can’t tell her she’s luminous in the darkened kitchen in a way that squeezes his heart painfully-tight.  
  
Gods.  
  
He swallows roughly, and follows her back to the living room, instead, thankful for the distraction. How long can he keep this up? Playing it cool seemed like a great idea at first, but he’s in too deep for that now, and he knows it.  
  
It took almost an hour to find a place that carried the little pink flowers she likes so much -- not helped by the fact that he couldn’t remember what they were called.  
  
But he spent the time gladly, even when the florists snapped at him or brushed him off, the only thought in his mind how this moment would feel.  
  
She’s too damn cute, fidgeting and fussing over the placement of the vase; for a moment he almost takes the two steps to cross the room and sweep her into his arms, aching for the way she’d look up at him, cheeks flushing all over again…  
  
A faint weight bumps against his ankles, though, and he glances down to see the cat’s awake. A distraction, but a good one.  
  
He crouches, offering his hand first, and then scratching behind the cat’s ears once it starts rubbing against him in clear invitation. The cat’s _friendly_ , too. More than he expected, standing on its hind legs to plant its paws on his knees and get in his face, nuzzling his stubble enthusiastically. The tag on the collar jingles, but he can’t quite get a good look; it’s a welcome bit of help when she speaks up.  
  
“Oh, that’s Mister,” she informs; when he looks up, she’s watching him with the cutest mix of nerves and what looks like excitement. It makes sense, though, he supposes. Everyone wants people to like their loved ones, pets included, right?  
  
He can’t help but laugh as Mister clambers onto him, finally falling back to sit and give his calves a break. The cat’s cute, too, a chubby grey-and-white spotted fellow, with vivid green-brown eyes.  
  
“Guess he’s pretty friendly, huh?”  
  
“Oh, only with the biggest suckers…” He grins. That was a _joke_ , wasn’t it? He got her to tease back, didn’t he?  
  
It probably shouldn’t feel like as much of an accomplishment as it does, but he’ll take it. There’s a cat in his lap, and _____ has settled a few feet away, and things are going well (even if he keeps ending up with a faceful of fur when Mister gets overenthusiastic about rubbing against him)  
  
The moment is a good one, pure and sweet.  
  
Of course, it helps that it also gives him time to figure out how to ask her out. He’d thought about it so many times since this morning, and even practiced in his head on the walk over, but...somehow, being here, everything he’d planned to say slips out of his grasp entirely. The feline attention is a nice way to pass the time -- although he’s not sure how he feels about the warm, rough tongue on the side of his head. It seems Mister’s decided he needs to be groomed, too, and as weird as it feels, Nyx smiles and gives just as much affection in return.  
  
Her laugh is charmingly imperfect, a sort of giggle-snort that couldn't possibly be called ‘musical’.  
  
Gods, he wants to hear it again.  
  
Nyx glances up at her, schooling his features into a pseudo-frown. “Are you laughing at me? And after I came all this way to ask you something important…” He turns to the cat that’s perched precariously on his shoulder, trying not to jostle him in the process. “For shame, right, Mister?”

  
The headbutt it earns him is firm enough to smart a little -- although that might have something to do with slight bruising that lingers along his jaw, too -- and he laughs aloud.  
  
"Defending her honor, I see…"

It's nice to sit like this with her, for once taking their time to enjoy the day without any rush. She's more at ease, too; she's relaxed gradually over time, and dinners are usually casual, comfortable affairs, but it's different with the light filtering in and giving her the most beautiful glow.

This time, things are warm, and easy.

So when she asks what he'd come to ask about, Nyx's brain stalls completely for a moment. He stares at Mister as if his fur could hold the answer somehow, and tries to compose himself into something...neutral. Calm, instead of the raging storm of emotions he's feeling.

He's not _ready_. If she says no, the moment ends, and Six, he wants this moment to last.

But he has to ask, it wouldn't be fair not to.

As he glances up, finally, and opens his mouth to answer-

She stands suddenly. 

“Sorry, just remembered I never poured the juice!”  
  
He looks up, frowning. She sounds...off, even as she disclaims that she’ll be back right away.  
  
“Uh, hold on, I don’t actually need anything,” he starts, relocating Mister to the floor and following as fast as he can; it’s a damn good thing, too, because as he steps into the kitchen he can hear her murmuring something about fucking up.  
  
It’s then that he takes a moment to look at her -- really _look_ , and take in what he sees -- and Nyx realizes very suddenly that _____ isn’t anywhere near as okay as she’s been pretending to be.  
  
She’s shaking, for one thing, and he can see the hint of tears starting to drip down her cheeks, although her head’s turned away from him. He’s not sure why, or what’s wrong exactly, but...well, he can’t just pretend he didn’t see.  
  
“Hey, nothing’s fucked up, okay?”  
  
She doesn’t respond.  
  
“_____?” He prompts. “It’s okay, I promise.”  
  
She still doesn’t respond, so he takes the juice from her as gently as possible, setting it back on the counter. “Hey, no, c’mere. It’s fine. I don’t need juice, it’s alright.”  
  
Hopefully he can calm her down enough to get an answer about what's wrong; seeing her like this hurts, but the idea that she’d try to hide it hurts even more. He knows they’re not _close_ , yet -- he’s here to try to change that -- but he thought he’d been pretty clear that he’s not gonna judge her for having emotions about things.  
  
Seems like either he wasn’t as clear as he thought, or she doesn’t believe him.  
  
That’s a worry for later, though; she’s still worried about the juice, enough that he grabs for her hands in an effort to hold her attention long enough that he can reassure her.  
  
It’s hard to say if it works or not, but he at least manages to lead her back to the living room and sit her on the couch. Nyx is grateful for that much, and Mister’s help, when she really starts to break down.  
  
She’s curled in on herself, as if she’d rather disappear than exist in this moment; he can understand that. Crying might feel kinda good after the fact, but Nyx has never been the kind of person to enjoy the _process_ .  
  
Not like Libertus, painfully and frustratingly honest at all times and circumstances. He’s too restrained for that, he supposes. Or maybe it’s more that he can’t seem to let go enough to allow himself to be that honest.  
  
It’s one of the things about _____ that’s always scared him and kept him at a distance. She makes him want to be honest, and he can’t begin to figure out how.  
  
But whether or not he knows how, he’s here to try...and try he will. Any effort has to start somewhere, after all.  
  
He starts by tucking her hair behind her ear; he just wants to help get her hair out of her face, knowing how uncomfortable it is to have hair stuck to tear-streaked cheeks, although he hopes the action carries some comfort, too.  
  
“I-I’m sorry, I...you don’t have to, it’s fine, really...I’m s-sorry about this, really…” She fumbles the words out frantically, sniffing between broken sentences, and he can’t take it anymore.  
  
He just _can’t_ .  
  
Maybe it’s not the smartest move, but Nyx reaches out again, cupping her face in both hands. “C’mon, look at me, please? You can tell me what’s wrong. I won’t take it personally, I _swear_ .”  
  
He means every word of it, too, voice soft and fervent. If she tells him he’s out of line, even if she tells him to get fucked and leave her alone, he’ll do it. Without question, he’ll do it if it’ll just make her feel better. Even the tiniest bit. As long as it helps.  
  
She wipes at her face roughly with one sleeve -- he probably shouldn’t find it so cute, but it’s such an innocent thing to do. And finally, she manages to look him in the eye, her chubby cheeks red and blotchy and _Six_ , he wants to kiss her face and pull her close until she’s okay again…  
  
But there’s a real chance that might make everything worse, and he doesn’t dare chance it. Instead, he caresses her hair (a more acceptable level of risk), and waits.  
  
“It’s not _you…_ ” Her assurances don’t do much to help, without any further explanation. It seems like even finding the words is too much, and at this point he can only really think of one thing to offer that might help.  
  
He tries his best to keep the reluctance out of his voice. “I can go, if you need.”  
  
She looks away, finally, staring down at her hands and fidgeting with them.  
  
The moment stretches, seconds seeming like hours as he steels himself to respond, to leave calmly and (try) not to lose his mind with worry. Nyx isn’t sure what he’ll do if he leaves; he doesn’t want to go far, just in case something is wrong, but he doesn’t know any of her friends, so he can’t very well ask someone to come check on her...and she’s mentioned she doesn’t talk with her neighbors much, and they’re not home often…  
  
“... _stay. Please._ ” Her voice is tiny, soft and pleading; the tears drip down her cheeks all over again, and that’s all it takes.  
  
It’s stupid and it’s reckless and he just can’t help himself.  
  
Nyx reaches out and pulls her close, shushing softly. “It’s okay. I’m here...I’ll stay, don’t worry.” The assurances flow from his lips before he can stop himself, not that he’s really trying to stop at this point. She’s hidden her face in his chest, gulping air in between gut-wrenching sobs, and it hurts so much to watch that his throat is almost too tight to speak -- but even if words are hard, he holds her and whispers into her hair. “It’s alright, _____, I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out. I’ll stay as long as you need.”  
  
And he means it.  
  
Every word; he’d call in tomorrow without hesitation, and it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of leave accrued. They’re not shipping out any time soon, either. So even if he didn’t follow proper protocol to request time off, he’s pretty sure Drautos would push it through for him...especially if he explained why it was so important.  
  
Whether or not it’s necessary, though, is a question for later. For right now, he settles back against the arm of the couch and pulls her along, settling her halfway on top of him. She tenses up, but as he pets her hair and repeats the soft assurances, she slowly relaxes.  
  
He’ll wait. As long as she needs, he’ll wait here, like this, and hold her.  
  
Under his breath, he hums; just some song from the radio, probably off-key, but she calms a tiny bit more. She even turns her head slightly to peek up at him through tear-matted lashes.  
  
The shaky smile she gives is the headiest, most beautiful thing he’s seen all day.  
  
Somewhere along the line, the humming turns into singing, although he couldn’t say when exactly. He’s not very good, and he knows it -- this isn’t about skill, though. It’s about the way she melts in his arms, nuzzling closer and resting her head over his heart, presumably to listen to the rhythm.  
  
There will be time to figure out where things went wrong later, and they _will_ , just like he promised. Right now his arms and heart are full, and Nyx is content to stay right where he is.  
  
From across the living room, he catches Mister’s eye.  
  
For the briefest of split seconds, he’d almost swear the cat looks _satisfied._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Nyx POV, and a bit of progress!
> 
> We have, however, deviated from The Plan, so we're now verging into uncharted territory courtesy of this pair of walking disasters...and the only thing I'm pretty sure of is that this is going to be significantly more than five chapters lol.
> 
> Not sure how fast uploads for this will come, as other one-shots and bits and bobs are starting to come to mind, but it's pretty safe to say I'll be updating as regularly as possible, and probably still every couple of days at most. I know y'all want to get to the good bits, and so do I!
> 
> Many thanks, as ever, to everyone who reads -- and especially to those who comment and kudos. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader's been struggling with this unexpected visit and her unfortunate assumptions, but even she can figure things out in time.
> 
> Thankfully, Nyx has at least a bit more confidence -- and he might just have enough to finally put an end to all this dancing around each other they've been doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Final Fantasy XV, Square Enix, or any parts thereof, and I make no money from writing this series.

You can’t believe you’ve made such a fool out of yourself like this, breaking down completely. There’s a part of you that wants to hate the tenderness Nyx treats you with...but you’d be kidding yourself if you said you didn’t crave it far more. As scared as you are of the vulnerability, you _want_ his comfort.  
  
And for now, at least, he seems happy enough to give it.  
  
Nothing good can last forever, though, and you do need to get things done. You’d left the lights off today, reveling in the bright, sunny day outside your windows; you’re lucky enough to have a good job that affords you a pretty nice apartment, all things considered. There’s not much of a view, but the windows are spacious enough to let in a lot of light, and you care a _lot_ more about that than seeing some grey cityscape.  
  
The only problem is that the sun’s going down; in the time you’d spent crying, the room went from ‘cozy’ to ‘gloomy’, and you’d rather not risk tripping on anything in the dark...especially Mister, who’s got an unfortunate talent of being exactly where you plan to step at the worst possible time.  
  
You have to shift a bit to do it, but you manage to push yourself upright with the back of the couch, wiping at your face with your sweater once more and grimacing. You should probably change...but you should definitely get the lights first, for Mister's sake.  
  
As you hit the switch -- thankfully not far from the couch -- you turn to Nyx with a considering look. "Do you...wanna stay for dinner?"

That's not the question you want to ask. You'd _like_ to ask him to stay -- just, stay. Tonight and tomorrow and the next day, forever.

He smiles up at you, considering. "Sure. Want to order something?"

You laugh nervously and chew on your lower lip. "I was gonna cook, actually. It's my day off, so I usually batch-cook…" Gods. You're still so restless, not sure what to do with yourself.

He nods, though, and the tightness that had been building in your chest eases.

"As long as you're not tiring yourself out too much," he warns, pushing himself up and stretching.

You watch, feeling the slightest bit lightheaded; he's gorgeous, strong and toned and unfairly pretty, and even though he catches you watching, he just smiles and leans into the stretch with a muted groan.

He's _showing off_ , you realize all of a sudden.

The headrush intensifies. At this point, you may as well give in, so you lean against the wall and eye him appreciatively.

"Enjoying the view?" He asks, tilting his head to regard you coyly.

You clear your throat and nod, not trusting your voice. This...if you didn't know better, you'd say this is _flirting_ .  
  
No, you do know better. As nervous as you are, and as hard as it is to believe, there’s not really any other way to look at this. He’s flirting with you, in your house -- as he straightens his shirt, he takes the trouble to unbutton the collar, and then the next button below it, giving you the most tantalizing glimpse of his chest.  
  
You feel ridiculous, and you’re pretty sure you’re redder than a killer tomato, but…  
  
All the same, you can’t help the little grin you dare. This is okay, isn’t it? You never would have expected it, but things have all worked out so far, and you’re almost beginning to hope. Maybe...maybe you can be friends?  
  
His answering smirk sends your heart soaring. “Dinner?” he prompts.  
  
“I know I’m good enough to eat, but you could probably use something more filling.”  
  
You snort, dropping your gaze to the floor as you try to keep some semblance of composure. “Oh, I’d say you’re _plenty_ filling…” you mutter.  
  
Still, you pad back to the kitchen, feeling...better. You’d almost say you feel _okay_ , as a matter of fact; maybe it was the crying, or maybe the good-natured flirting after, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but you’re doing alright. Hanging in there, certainly.  
  
You’d all but forgotten that he’d had something to ask, when he appears in the doorway next to you to interrupt your absentminded contemplation of the pantry.  
  
“Hey...about tomorrow,” he starts, the easy humor gone from his voice.  
  
A chill runs up your spine.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
As much as he wants to stay on the couch with her, Nyx has to admit the dimming light presents something of a problem -- not to mention as the hour grows later, she’ll need to eat. And at some point he _is_ going to have to leave so she can go to bed…  
  
She pushes herself up as the room starts to reach a level of darkness that could be called ‘gloomy’. He hates letting her go, even to hit the lightswitch; it would be much nicer to stay on the couch and hold her instead until she dozes off in his arms, but that’s not a practical option.  
  
He makes a mental note to look at smart-home systems. That would take care of the lightswitch issue, for sure.  
  
That line of thought, however, is quickly interrupted.  
  
“Do you...wanna stay for dinner?”  
  
He almost can’t believe his luck. She looks nervous, shoulders hunched once again, but at least she returns the smile he offers. “Sure. Want to order something?” It would probably be easier on her -- today may be her day off, but she should probably rest. He knows work hasn’t been kind to her lately...maybe he can make up the difference, at least a bit.  
  
She shuffles in place, eyeing him sidelong. “"I was gonna cook, actually. It's my day off, so I usually batch-cook…"  
  
It makes sense, now that he thinks about it, and it certainly puts Nyx more at ease. If she’s batch-cooking in her spare time, he doesn’t have to worry _quite_ as much about whether or not she’s overexerting herself for his sake…  
  
That doesn’t stop him from worrying entirely, though. "As long as you're not tiring yourself out too much.”  
  
He shoves himself off the couch, stretching out his sore body -- her couch isn’t terrible, but it’s definitely not the most comfortable, especially with the arm digging into his back for a while.  
  
As he stretches, he notices the way her eyes linger.  
  
Now _that’s_ what he likes to see...and it seems she likes what she’s seeing too.  
  
He takes his time with the motions, leaning a bit more into the stretches than he strictly _needs_ to, watching her watch him. It’s cute, the way her face is flushed and her mouth hangs slightly open.  
  
Nyx could definitely get used to this.  
  
“Enjoying the view?” he asks, only making the most token effort to hide the smugness he feels -- and why should he? Nothing wrong with enjoying the feeling of being wanted…  
  
...and there’s no other explanation for the way she’s looking at him, shuffling restlessly in place.  
  
As much as he wants to keep teasing her, though, and see how far he can push this, she needs to eat. He prompts her gently.  
  
“Dinner? I know I’m good enough to eat, but you could probably use something more filling.”  
  
The double-entendre wasn’t strictly intended, and for a split second he’s worried about how she’ll react-  
  
She stares at the floor, hair falling over her flushed face, but she does respond, even in an undertone. “Oh, I’d say you’re _plenty_ filling…”  
  
As she turns toward the kitchen, she entirely misses the shock and delight on Nyx’s face as he follows her.  
  
He takes a deep breath, and then another.  
  
She’s flirting back, there’s no doubt of that now…  
  
...surely now is as good a moment as any?  
  
Swallowing back the butterflies, he steps into the kitchen doorway, leaning against it as casually as he can manage.  
  
“Hey...about tomorrow.”  
  
She freezes, body going rigid; in a moment of panic, he places a hand on her shoulder, coaxing her until she turns around.  
  
Her eyes are wide, staring at his chest with an expression as worried as he _feels_ .  
  
Shit.  
  
Nyx is a firm believer that when the only way out is through, the only decent thing to do is just _do_ it, but he can’t help but pause.  
  
He looks at the ceiling instead, her frightened face too much for his nerves. “You mind a change of plans?” It’s a start.  
  
It’s a step in the right direction, and he knows from experience that as long as he can take the first step off the edge, falling comes easier than you’d think.  
  
He glances down, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ear; his fingers linger along her cheek, brushing the backs of his knuckles along it tenderly. “...shit, I can’t…”  
  
She starts to pull away.  
  
He can’t let this moment escape -- it’s not slipping through his fingers _again_ . Not now, after all this. Every risk he’s taken today has paid off, and right now he’s willing to take a bigger one; a hand curves around the back of her neck, pulling her forward into him until she collides with his chest with a soft ‘oof’.  
  
He wraps his arms around her, praying desperately that she’s only stiff because she’s nervous, and not because he’s done something wrong.  
  
“______,” he murmurs against her hair. “Will you let me take you to dinner? Please?”  
  
For the longest, most agonizing handful of seconds she’s silent, and still.  
  
And then, she speaks up in that same tiny voice from before. “...is this...like a _date_ ?”  
  
He swallows.  
  
The moment of truth, it seems...but somehow, he’s not as nervous as he was a moment ago, as her thick arms wrap around him in return, and she nuzzles her face into his chest subtly.  
  
He smiles, and for a moment he’s almost surprised to find his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. “Yeah. If you like, it’s a date.” His voice is thick with emotion, and normally he’d be bothered by that…  
  
Right now, though, it’s just the two of them.  
  
Well, the two of them and Mister, who takes the moment to assert his presence by winding between their legs and meowing insistently.  
  
She peeks up at him, teeth worrying her lower lip again -- the absurdity of the moment sets in, and they break apart, laughing. “Oh, Mister…” she mutters fondly, turning to rummage in a cabinet until she retrieves a bag of food she doles the cat a generous scoop from.  
  
Nyx watches, bemused; as she comes closer, though, putting the bag away and turning back to him, he reaches out and brushes his fingers across her cheek again.  
  
She blinks, hard, suddenly deeply interested in contemplating the floor…  
  
...but she sways _closer_ , this time, and leans into the touch.  
  
"Y-yeah, I'd...really like that."  
  
He grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Happy early and/or belated winter holiday of your choice! :D
> 
> HE ASKED HER THE THING AND SHE SAID YES.
> 
> And now we get back to the comedy of errors, as the rest of the cast becomes relevant lmao.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big problem with deciding to go on a date -- it turns out you kind of need a plan for the date, even if it's a halfassed one.
> 
> Nyx realizes belatedly that he might not have thought things through all the way, and might need to spend some time pondering questions like 'what now?'

Dinner is a quiet affair; neither of them has as much to say as usual, but the silence isn’t as strange as it should be.   
  
It’s tender, and each brush of their fingers takes Nyx’s breath away. The fact that he gets to sit here with her, to be beside her, and watch the shy glances she steals at him now and then...it’s perfect. He can’t imagine a better way to spend the evening.   
  
It has to end, though, like all things do -- and soon, sooner than he’d like, the food is finished and the dishes are washed and there’s nothing to do except say goodnight.   
  
The way she looks at him, eyes pleading, makes him wonder if she’ll ask him to stay; for a moment, at the door, he thinks she will.   
  
But the moment passes, as she shakes her head and then beams up at him.   
  
Her smile is as sweet as ever, goofy and bright and adorable; he loves how she wrinkles her nose when her heart is in it...and he can’t help but take a step forward, leaning in.   
  
She bites her lip and leans in as well, watching him with wide eyes.   
  
“I...guess this is goodnight, then?” Her voice is so tentative, still, although they’ve clearly both made up their minds.   
  
Nyx brushes her hair out of her face. Gods, he’s lucky to be here right now. Even if he doesn’t deserve this, she’s here, and she’s so warm and trusting and soft. It’s easy to reach out and pull her into his arms again, so second-nature that he barely thinks before he does it.   
  
He watches the little flickers of expression that overtake her; she’s always so expressive, it seems like she can’t help herself, and he could watch her forever and not get bored.   
  
As her tongue darts out to wet her lips, he swallows convulsively. “Goodnight, yeah…” he murmurs, the words absentminded as he cups her cheek and leans in until they’re only inches apart.   
  
She pushes onto her tiptoes, winding her arms around his neck properly.   
  
Her eyes fall shut.   
  
Something soft brushes past his ankles.   
  
“ _ Bastard _ !” she yelps, and wrenches herself out of his arms.   
  
Nyx watches helplessly as she skitters down the front steps, feet bare, swearing under her breath the whole way.   
  
Across the street, Mister has made himself at home on the lid of a trash bin. He doesn’t run as she comes tromping across to scoop him up; just sits there mewling plaintively at her.   
  
“I know, I know...it’s  _ cold _ , and it’s big and scary and smells weird. And the other cats are gonna bully you again if they catch you...you little shitgoblin, would it  _ kill _ you to stay indoors like you know you should?”   
  
Hilariously, Mister punctuates her ranting with meows now and then, making it sound almost like a real conversation. As she makes her way up the stairs, she glances up at Nyx with a wry grin. “Sorry about him...he doesn’t know what’s good for him…”   
  
She pauses on the doorstep, letting the cat down and carefully shutting the door after herself; as she does, she gives Nyx a lingering once-over and huffs. “...guess I’ve got a type.”   
  
The words are muttered, but they’re still no more than a couple of feet apart -- plenty close enough for him to hear her, something she obviously realizes a few seconds too late, clapping a hand over her mouth in horror.   
  
Before she can do much more than gawp at him, though, Nyx leans in and presses his lips to her forehead. “Glad to hear it,” is all he says, stepping back with one final caress to her hair. “Tomorrow, then?”   
  
She nods, shy smile half-visible behind her hand. “Same time?” she asks in return.   
  
He laughs.   
  
“It’s a date.”   
  
He probably won’t ever admit it aloud, but he says it just to watch the way she bites her lip, eyes lighting up with quiet delight.   
  
“Message when you get home safe?” She calls after him as he walks away.   
  
It’s not really a surprise, but the fact that she cares so much warms him all the way down to his toes. “You got it!” he calls back.   
  
That’s the last thing he allows himself; if he lingers any more, he won’t leave at all, and while it’s not that much further to get to work, he also knows that he’s not going to want to  _ go _ to work in the morning if he doesn’t go home now. He’d make any excuse to stay by her side, right now.   
  
As he makes his way back downtown, his phone rings -- no surprise, it’s Libertus.   
  
“I know, I missed dinner at Yamachang’s,” he says smugly, “but it was  _ worth _ it.”   
  
On the other end, there’s the sound of a brief scuffle, before Crowe’s voice comes through louder and less clear; on speaker, maybe? Or just leaning over Libertus’ shoulder to yell...either is possible, knowing her. “Tell me you finally got around to it.”   
  
He laughs aloud, too delighted to let them get a rise out of him.    
  
“ _ She said yes _ .”   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
After Nyx left, you couldn’t seem to sit still, too wound up from the thrill of...well,  _ everything _ . So much happened in one afternoon, and you could barely wrap your head around all of it -- so you took time to clean up the apartment a bit, tidying as best you could without making too much noise. Every now and then, the memory of his lips on your forehead or the look in his eyes as he held you in the doorway would come to mind unbidden and you’d have to stop and take a moment to freak out a little bit.   
  
It’s only natural, though. He’s gorgeous, and funny and kind, and he asked you on a  _ date. _ _   
_ _   
_ You’re not great with people, but even  _ you _ know that it means something…   
  
...although you’re still not entirely sure how much it means. Dating is a pretty casual thing for people in Insomnia, it seems -- or at least  _ going on a date _ is. Dating and going on a date are two different things, at least as far as you can tell.   
  
Admittedly, it’s a bit hard to say when no one’s really given you much chance to get from the latter to the former, but you’re pretty confident in your understanding.   
  
That doesn’t put you more at ease, though. It certainly doesn’t help with finding sleep.   
  
You manage eventually, getting at least enough rest to make it through work alright -- by the time you’re home, the adrenaline kicks in, and any fatigue you might’ve felt otherwise disappears.   
  
There’s enough time to tidy a bit more before you have to get ready; you’re not really sure what to wear anyway, and you know if you try to get dressed now, you’ll just freak out and get nothing done…   
  
That would be a problem, if you just sit in your underwear and stare into space and tune out the world until he’s already at your front door, and you’re pretty sure it’s a realistic risk, as much as thinking feels like wading through a kiddie pool of molasses at the moment.   
  
You put on some music instead, blasting it through your phone’s tinny speakers and throwing yourself into cleaning for at least a little while, just enough to calm down and maybe get back to thinking clearly.   
  
As the time approaches, you finally put the broom and cloth and everything else away.   
  
Moment of truth, you suppose.   
  
You stare at your closet.   
  
What the hell are you supposed to wear on a date? It had seemed like a good idea, but right now you’re pretty sure you don’t have the first clue about what to wear for a date...come to think of it, isn’t that pretty dependent on where you go? Shit, you should’ve asked where he wanted to go, and now you’re going to be overdressed and look ridiculous and he’s going to laugh at you for trying too hard -- or worse, you’ll be  _ underdressed _ , and he’ll think you’re not taking this seriously or making fun of him and the last thing you want to do is offend him, but you can’t just call and  _ ask _ or anything like that, there’s no way you can admit to him what an idiot you’re being about this.   
  
You’ve still got a couple of hours, thankfully, so you  _ could _ call and ask...but he’s at work.   
  
Minutes pass as you contemplate your phone numbly; you’re not sure you’d find the strength to do it, if it weren’t for Mister clambering up in your lap and pawing at you.   
  
“Yeah, you’re right...it’s smarter to ask.” You sigh. “But you  _ know _ it’s scary.”   
  
Phone calls can be hard at the best of times -- in the outlands, you didn’t use phones all that often, unlike Insomnians who seem to find every possible avenue to make use of each piece of astonishing technology, so you’ve never really gotten what you’d call  _ comfortable _ with talking on the phone.   
  
As if to reassure you that he’ll keep you safe, Mister curls up and starts purring, pillowing his head on your free hand for good measure.   
  
You nod.   
  
Better to get it over with, and hope he isn't busy with anything _too_ important.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
He can’t believe he actually  _ asked _ her.   
  
“Look alive, Ulric. Don’t drop your guard.”   
  
And the way she looked at him last night, warm and gentle and shy and so  _ perfect _ ...   
  
It’s not that Nyx isn’t over the moon, but-   
  
“ _ Ulric! _ ”   
  
-he can’t seem to focus, today, and that’s a problem for more reasons than one.   
  
A hand grips the back of his coat, yanking him backward -- barely in time to avoid collision with Pelna as he warps past to clash with Luche across the arena.   
  
He stumbles back and turns, dreading who it was that dragged him out of the reverie.   
  
Of  _ course _ .   
  
Captain Drautos stares at him with the same vaguely-disgusted look as the day before. For a moment, Nyx wonders if he should even try to defend himself...but he knows what that expression means, really.   
  
He sighs. “Your office, yeah. I got it.”   
  
Drautos doesn’t respond. He takes a moment to correct Tredd’s form, but even that pause doesn’t keep him from catching up with Nyx quickly.   
  
Then again, the Captain’s not a patient man, and he doesn’t linger or take his time with things if he doesn’t have cause to. Everything, even the way he walks, carries purpose and a quiet sort of dignity.   
  
Nyx, on the other hand, slouches into the chair without hesitation this time. Sure, he  _ should  _ stand on ceremony regardless, but the door is closed and there’s no one around, and he’s not interested in wasting time any more than Drautos.   
  
“Thank you, sir.”   
  
Better to start with thanks, he supposes. “She said yes,” he offers.   
  
Across the heavy wooden desk, Drautos settles into his chair with an unimpressed grunt. “Don’t tell me; you don’t know what to do next, and you can’t focus because you’re too busy worrying about your love life to think about your job.”   
  
He scrubs a hand over his face and close-cropped hair, sighing. “ _ Shit.  _ Tell me you’ll focus after this. Even if it’s a lie.”   
  
Nyx grimaces.   
  
They may not have any pressing missions right now, at least as far as he knows, but the lack of Niflheim activity usually means the next wave will be worse, and he knows that puts everyone on edge -- especially the commanders.   
  
Thinking about it that way, he feels pretty bad about being so out of sorts; the Captain’s going to be counting on him, and he has to be ready. If he’s not up to the task, that puts more burden on others, and that’s not fair.   
  
He picks at the dirt under his fingernails uneasily. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t let it happen again.” And he means it, making sure to look Drautos in the eye, hoping his sincerity is clear.   
  
The Captain waves him off, and passes a folder across the desk. “Mission details. You’ve got three days to prepare. I’d recommend you focus on that after today.”   
  
He sounds almost apologetic.   
  
With a tight smile, Nyx nods. “Understood, sir.” He’ll have to tell her tonight…   
  
But that only brings up the problem again.   
  
As perceptive as ever, Drautos watches him with a nonplussed expression. “Stop worrying so much about it. If she said yes, she said yes. Take her somewhere she’ll like -- it’s not supposed to be about  _ what _ you do as much as it is being together.” He snorts. “You  _ do  _ know what she likes, right?”   
  
Nyx stares at the folder in his hands numbly. “She...she likes nature?” He looks up, suddenly, a thought occurring to him. “She misses getting to spend time in nature. She hates the city.”   
  
The Captain nods. “Then you have your answer. And don’t forget-”   
  
As he stands, Nyx laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I know, dress  _ nicely _ , show her I’m sincere, don’t pressure her. I got it.”   
  
Drautos scoffs. “No one but Ignis Scientia would dress up to a park.” For a moment, he regards Nyx seriously, his weathered face taking on a more solemn cast than usual. “Don’t leave things unsaid. It’s better not to have regrets,” is his final advice.   
  
It’s not what Nyx expected -- it sounds like he’s speaking from experience, a rare bit of more personal honesty from the notoriously reclusive Captain...but it’s sound advice, and he knows it.   
  
Belatedly, he stands to attention, waiting to be dismissed, and considers the advice.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He’s got at least a bit more of a plan, now, and training goes better for the rest of the day, but the thought of regrets weighs on his mind. He hadn’t thought about what would happen if  _ he _ didn’t come back to  _ her _ …   
  
Libertus nudges his shoulder in the locker room, gesturing to his phone; the ringer’s off, but the screen’s on.   
  
She’s calling.   
  
“Guess she can’t get enough of ya, hey?”   
  
He rolls his eyes at the grins that are suddenly turned on him. There’s a reason Nyx hadn’t been talking about this in front of the other Glaives...but it seems like the question of when and if to break the news has been taken out of his hands.   
  
With quick, practiced motions, he pulls his boots back on and laces them, picking up the phone and answering while he wrestles his t-shirt back on. “Hey, _____.”   
  
Before Libertus or the others can make something of it, he grabs his jacket and slings it over his shoulder, striding out of the locker room.   
  
As the door falls shut behind him, he can hear the commotion inside.   
  
He stifles a sigh.   
  
It doesn’t matter what the others have to say; he’s got something better waiting for him in a couple of hours. The thought of seeing her thrills through him. Even getting to be around her for a little while, just sitting under a tree and talking for a bit, sounds sublime. The Captain’s well-intentioned caution doesn’t diminish that.   
  
“Yeah, I had a thought...what do you say to a picnic? There’s a place I wanna show you.”   
  
Nyx may not be sure what the future will bring, but he’s got a plan for now, and he’s going to see it through.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUGH
> 
> I'm sorry this didn't actually involve the date, but apparently, we needed to get this out of the way first.
> 
> Don't worry, though the date will happen next chapter, for better or worse!
> 
> I also wanna take a sec to reiterate that this WILL have a happy ending, and nothing's going to happen to Nyx while he's away...at least, nothing permanent or terrible.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for the comments, kudos, feedback, and ideas that have helped to drive this story ever onward <3 Your enthusiasm means more than I can possibly express, and I want y'all to know that you're genuinely bringing me joy and hope, things that are in short supply for many this year. Truly, the impact of your engagement can't be overstated. Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After far too long, Reader is finally going on a date with Nyx...can it really be this simple?

You’re breathless with excitement and nerves, too giddy to stay inside, by the time Nyx turns down your street to see you sitting on the front steps.   
  
_ Gods _ , the way his eyes light up...you take a moment to commit this to memory, to bundle the feeling up and pray you never forget the way he looks at you as he approaches.   
  
“Ready to go?” he asks, and holds out a hand to help you up.   
  
You take it; with someone else you might worry a bit, since you’re not exactly light, but. Well.   
  
He’s long since proven he can throw you around when he puts his mind to it.   
  
You brush your free hand over your tunic, making sure the fabric lays smooth -- and suddenly, you realize he still hasn’t released your hand. He just adjusts his grip, twining your fingers together.   
  
You swallow, suddenly feeling quite a bit warmer than before.   
  
Nyx squeezes your hand gently. “This okay?” he asks -- and he waits for your nod -- and you know that if you’d said no, he would have let go, and he wouldn’t have been upset.   
  
It’s strange, and heady, but Six above and below, he’s touching you and he’s so careful and your heart is already so full it feels like it’ll burst.   
  
He steps in close, just for a split second, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. “Well then, beautiful,” he says, stepping back, “shall we?”   
  
You nod, teeth worrying your lower lip. He...just called you beautiful, didn’t he? You heard that right.   
  
The thought leaves you a little bit dizzy, in the best possible way.   
  
As you walk, you stay as close to him as possible, and not just because your hands are still twined together.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
He’d asked on the phone what you wanted to eat; you hadn’t had the first clue, at first, so you’d blurted out the name of a little shop you pass on the way to and from his apartment, that’s always closed when you’re out. He had laughed, and asked how you felt about spicy food, but when you’d admitted you preferred food with plenty of flavor, he’d grown quiet and thoughtful.   
  
You’d wondered if you’d said something that offended him -- you always worry about things like that, a habit you still hadn’t had any luck breaking. When he spoke again, though, he suggested stopping somewhere else, and assured you it would be more like what you were looking for.   
  
So you found yourself sitting at the table, surrounded by a gaggle of strangers eagerly asking you a variety of surprisingly-personal questions -- and one woman, who kind of terrified you and kept yelling at the rest of them when they talked to you -- waiting for Nyx and the food.   
  
One in particular didn’t ask many questions, seeming content just to eat, but he kept giving Nyx meaningful glances now and then. He was heavier-set than the others, something that made you feel a bit more at ease sitting beside him. He was like you, plain-looking, unlike most of the others you’d since figured out were fellow Glaives.   
  
The woman in particular was gorgeous, enough to give you butterflies any time she addressed you...but she was brusque in her manner, and even crude, despite telling the other Glaives off for similar language.   
  
You couldn’t help but smile as you watched her interacting with them; in a way, it felt a bit like having a sister looking out for you, even just for a little while. You’d always wanted a sibling…   
  
Soon enough, though, the food was ready, and Nyx extricated you from the assembly during one of the intermittent spats between members. They seemed like one big family...it was nice, really. After all, you were just as much of an outsider, even if you didn’t look it quite so much; you didn’t have a community like that, though. Somehow, you’d never managed to make more than a few friends at a time, and even they weren’t usually too close.   
  
It’s part of what made things with Nyx so different, and so special.   
  
And really, it’s what made this date so frightening a prospect -- there’s no one in your life quite like Nyx, and you’d rather do almost anything than give up the friendship (that is what it is, isn’t it?) that you have with him.   
  
You shift slightly, scooting until you can lean back against the strong, thick tree trunk. They’re not quite the same as home, but…   
  
You smile, gathering yourself back from being lost in thought. “Thank you.”   
  
To your right, Nyx makes a noise of curiosity, pausing mid-bite.   
  
Laughing, you stretch your legs in front of you and cross your ankles. “Oh, you know.” You glance up at him sidelong. “I know you picked this place because it’s got evergreens…”   
  
You think about daring to reach out and brush your fingers along his arm, but…   
  
No, that’s much too bold for you. Not yet.   
  
He caresses your hair -- just a fleeting touch, but still a sign of affection. It still makes your heart leap in your chest, thrilling at his touch, unable to stop yourself from leaning into it at least a little bit.  
  
You wish you could be as bold as he is.  
  
“Thought you might like to have a little bit of home...or something kinda like it.” He offers. When you turn to look, he’s smiling...although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time.   
  
You take another bite of the savory meat, humming thoughtfully.   
  
“Guess we’ve got a little bit of each of our homes to share, tonight,” you muse.   
  
You smile up at him and wonder if he feels the same tightness in his chest. Probably, you think.   
  
It’s different from dinner last night; last night you ate Insomnian food, simple and conformist and pedestrian, but filling and cooked with all the love you had to give. The same as ever. You didn’t have much to say, but it didn’t seem like it mattered. It was just the two of you (and Mister) in your apartment, in a world of your own. It was soft and pure and good, and somehow all of the sadness fell away by the time you’d started cooking.   
  
Tonight, though, the melancholy you’d banished before is almost palpable. The park isn’t what you’d call busy, but it’s a late spring evening -- unseasonably warm despite the hour -- and there are couples milling about here and there, walking and talking, or sitting on park benches together.   
  
You’re not alone in your own little world, you’re here in the park where everyone can see you, and the sudden realization that people  _ do _ actually see you makes the night feel just a bit more chill.   
  
As soon as you notice a couple looking at you, it feels like everyone is. No matter how irrational you know that is, you can’t help but tense each time someone passes by too close on the walking path, or meanders along the bottom of the grassy hill the two of you are seated atop.   
  
Of course, he notices. “Are you cold?”   
  
He sounds so worried, too, that you can’t help but look up-   
  
-just in time for your worst fears to come true.   
  
“Oh my gosh, _____, hey!”   
  
The pair of women who’d been walking along the lighted path step off to approach, waving cheerfully. “We were just saying we haven’t seen you in forever!” one of them gushes, wrapping her arm around the other’s shoulders.   
  
Shit. You don’t remember their names at all.   
  
You went to high school together, didn’t you? They look familiar, but in a distant kind of way. You’re pretty sure it wasn’t from a job.   
  
Woodenly, you nod, trying desperately to get your brain to catch up and let you smile, or at least offer some kind of pleasantries.   
  
The second one, a tall blonde who’d been eyeing not you but Nyx, suddenly elbows her companion in the ribs. “ _ Honey _ ,” she hisses. “She’s on a  _ date _ . I told you we shouldn’t interrupt.”   
  
The first one pouts, twirling one of her partner’s elegantly-waved locks around her finger. “Oh c’mon, we really haven’t seen her in forever...and besides, it’s clear she’s got  _ news _ .” She looks at you with a salacious smirk. “I don’t know what kind of  _ magic _ you worked to bag someone like the Hero of the Kingsglaive, but good for you, girl! You must’ve really come out of your shell.”   
  
You blanch. “Oh, no- we’re...it’s not…” you stammer, as the blonde jabs her with an elbow again, eliciting a wounded noise.   
  
“You’re making her uncomfortable...just like always,” she sighs.   
  
She turns to you. “I’m sorry about my wife, she’s...not exactly a people person, but she tries.” They share a meaningful glance, and a fond smile. “I hope you two have a nice time.”   
  
She offers a polite nod, and starts to back away.   
  
You stand.   
  
“I.”   
  
What are you doing, you wonder. You should just let them go, not cause any more trouble...but you don’t want them to give other people the wrong idea, and it’s already obvious they’ve read far more into your relationship with Nyx than is true...and you can already tell at least one of them is itching to tell anyone who will listen.   
  
“It’s not a date.” You can barely believe the words coming out of your own mouth, but you laugh and spare a hope that it’ll cover your nervousness enough...and keep digging yourself deeper. “Really, it’s not…”   
  
The blonde watches you with something that almost seems like pity, as you fumble for words.   
  
“We’re friends, that’s all.” You conclude, desperate for the interaction to be over.   
  
The flirty one hasn’t even looked at you while you’ve been talking, eyes locked on Nyx with her lips slightly parted. Maybe she’s wondering what her chances are, you suppose…   
  
The silence stretches.   
  
The blonde glances to her wife, and follows her gaze...and then wraps an arm around her waist, steering her back to the path. “Well, it was nice to see you again,” she offers with a sad-looking smile. “I hope your evening is a good one.”   
  
You wonder why she sounds so fervent.   
  
It only takes a few seconds after they’re gone for you to figure out why.   
  
Beside you, Nyx has folded up the boxes of half-eaten food neatly, stacked them on top of each other, and stood.   
  
He doesn’t look at you, but you can see the tension through the lines of his shoulders and arms.   
  
You fucked up. And this time you’re  _ sure _ of that.   
  
He sets his jaw. “So. Guess I really made a fool of myself.” Nyx sighs, the sound morphing into a bitter chuckle. “Don’t know why I expected something else…”   
  
For the first time, his eyes are cold as he looks you over. “I thought you might understand, coming from the outlands...but I guess you’re no different.”   
  
Your whole body’s chilled, all the comfort and ease from before erased in a short few minutes as if they’d never been there at all.    
  
Gods, you ache down to your core. You’d always had a feeling he’d come to his senses, but you didn’t think it would happen tonight…   
  
No, if you’re honest, you’d started to believe it  _ wouldn’t _ happen.   
  
You had actually thought he might-   
  
You can’t even finish the thought, now. Even in your own head, it hurts too much; especially with the way he’s looking at you.   
  
It’s the same, the disdain you’re so accustomed to seeing on other faces -- he scoffs and turns away.   
  
This feels like a nightmare, the pain and surrealness of it all leaving you dizzy enough to stumble as you take a hesitant step forward.   
  
He doesn’t even turn.   
  
“ _ I know,” _ you hear yourself say. “I _ know _ , okay? I’m not...right. For you.” The words are hard to force out, at first, but as you feel the first tears start to fall in earnest, something breaks loose.   
  
“Of course you deserve someone better, someone who can be…” You gesture toward him helplessly; through the haze of tears you couldn’t say whether or not he’s looking, but it doesn’t really matter anymore.   
  
He makes a sharp little sound, the sound mocking. “You can’t stand to see me in the mornings, and you want me to believe that?”   
  
As you blink away the tears, he stalks closer, his expression thunderous.   
  
“What about that bullshit earlier? You wouldn’t even admit we were on a date -- if you’re that ashamed to be seen with me, why the hell did you say yes in the first place?” Is it just your imagination, or does he sound...hurt?   
  
You sniff, hard, and rub at your face. “I didn’t want them...they wanted to talk to  _ you _ . Because you’re a  _ hero _ , you’re  _ imp-portant _ .” Your breath hitches on the last word, making your voice break in the most mortifying of fashions.   
  
He huffs. “Doesn’t explain why you can’t even stand to wake me up in the mornings to say goodbye. Hell, you don’t leave a note. Guess you must be pretty ashamed of slumming it with someone like me.”   
  
“I...I don’t  _ want _ to leave!”   
  
The words are nearly a wail. “I n, I never  _ want  _ to! But…” You rub your eyes again, restless. “I can’t. I can’t wait and…”   
  
As he nods, assumptions made, you finally blurt out the rest. “ _ I can’t wait and hear you say you don’t want me. _ ”   
  
The words take all the strength you have left; you sink to the ground and curl in on yourself as if you can hold yourself together just like this. Astrals, why did this have to happen? Maybe it’s no more than you deserve for getting ahead of yourself, getting your hopes up…   
  
You just want to go home.   
  
You don’t want to do this anymore, keep serving up your heart on a platter for him to decline every single time. You’re tired of waiting for him to figure out you’re not worth his time, and as much as this hurts, you’re almost glad he’s finally angry enough with you to realize it.   
  
He crouches, right in front of you. For a moment, your traitorous brain almost expects him to pull you into a hug -- but no, this isn’t yesterday.   
  
He grabs you by the chin, his grip on you firm and unyielding as he tilts your head back until he can meet your eyes. “You think,” he says slowly, “that I don’t want you.”   
  
It’s not a question, but then, it doesn’t need to be.   
  
You hiccup on a sob, trying to nod and failing. “Uh-huh.” The sound is tiny, miserable, pathetic…   
  
His expression twists, suddenly; you’re not sure what to call this, but it hurts even more than the anger...disgust, perhaps, is the closest you can think.   
  
He’s disgusted by you, now? Gods. And you didn’t think this could hurt more.   
  
Nyx closes his eyes slowly, releasing his grip on you and sitting back on his heels.   
  
“...and just how the  _ fuck _ did you come to that conclusion?”   
  
Is it your imagination, or does he sound tired?   
  
Not that you can blame him; this has been exhausting, and you’re used to what a pain you can be. Surely he finds it much more taxing.   
  
Sniffing hard, you tuck your hair behind your ears -- for the briefest split second, you’re reminded of yesterday, and almost wish he’d touch you like he did before. You move on, trying to steady your breathing enough to answer. “I’m...you’re kind, and funny, and good-looking, and everyone knows you’re a hero-” You can see he starts to roll his eyes, so you push the matter. “-you  _ are _ . You do what you know is right, even when you’re not supposed to.”   
  
With a shaky breath, you settle yourself into a more comfortable sitting position.   
  
After a few seconds, he does the same.   
  
You try not to read into it.   
  
“I admire that,  _ people _ admire that. You give us  _ hope _ , Nyx!” You plead with him, leaning forward ever so slightly despite yourself. “Because we know there are people like you who care, and who won’t turn away from helping. I know I’m not good enough for someone like you, so I…”   
  
You swallow. “I, I got used to it.” As you speak, you twine your fingers in the grass. “If I could just  _ help _ , even a little bit...maybe make you happy, sometimes, or make things a little easier on you, it was enough…”   
  
You don’t dare meet his eyes, or you’ll break once again. Already, your throat is tight and your voice wavers with the surge of emotions. “It was _ enough _ ,” you repeat.   
  
“I didn’t want to be greedy and hope for more.”   
  
Although the tears still track down your cheeks, a steady flow, you let your eyes fall closed.   
  
Right now you just want this whole stupid day to be over. You’d rather he just told you to get lost and left, instead of sitting there listening to you bare your heart like some kind of pathetic loser.   
  
“You’re  _ not _ pathetic,” you hear, just before you’re suddenly wrapped in warmth.   
  
You’re not sure what to do; you don’t want him to feel like he has to comfort you, by any means, and you’re about to tell him that when you feel his lips against your hairline.   
  
“I never wanted you to leave,” he confesses. The words are soft, clearly pained,  _ desperate _ . “Every time, I’d wake up alone and wonder if you were ashamed…”   
  
And all you can do is wrap your arms around him and hold him as tightly as you can, your fingers clenched in his shirt; you can barely stand it. His voice is so small for once, sounding as broken as you feel.    
  
You’re starting to recognize that somewhere along the line, you misunderstood a  _ lot _ .   
  
Your face is still damp, and you’re making a mess of his shirt, and you still feel guilty about it, but it doesn’t stop you from nuzzling your face into his neck. “I just wanted to take care of you,” you confess in return.   
  
He huffs under his breath. “What, I look like I need it that much?” His throat sounds raw, as if he’d just been screaming, not whispering.   
  
You nod against him. “Kinda…” you admit with a nervous chuckle. “You can feed yourself, but…”   
  
Sighing, you sit back slightly, just enough to squirm a hand between the two of you and lay it over his heart. “...you don’t seem like you know how to take care of  _ this _ .”   
  
At this point, there’s hardly anything left to hide; you figure you may as well admit it, and let things happen as they will.   
  
“I wanted to make you feel loved.”   
  
He sucks in a breath. For a terrible few seconds, he doesn’t respond; you wonder what you’ve done wrong now…   
  
But his wide palms cradle your cheeks and tilt your face up so very gently, and as you drag your gaze up to his, your heart drops.   
  
“ _ You did _ ,” he murmurs, swallowing back the tears. “You  _ do _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;_; I'm sorry, I promise it'll get better! But they had to have Feelings Talks and there had to be a reason, so...here we are.
> 
> And next time, Crowe and Libertus get to do more than just be in the background lmao.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who comments and leaves kudos! Your engagement is always, always appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude. Reader and Nyx share a few quiet moments before he has to leave.

“You’re sure?”   
  
You set the freshly-washed container upside down to dry, patting your hands dry against your skirt. You take a moment to make a mental note that Nyx could really use a couple more dishtowels before you turn -- and your heart stutters in your chest.   
  
He’s smiling in that way that makes you ache, wide and honest, his eyes crinkling with the motion. “Yeah. I want you to stay. Please?”   
  
You take a shaky breath. You’ve longed to hear those words for...gods, months? And although you’d told yourself again and again you’d never get to, he’s proved your assumptions entirely wrong. “But...you have to leave in the morning, right? Don’t you want to...I dunno, get ready?” The perplexed look he gives you makes you laugh. “Hey, I don’t know the first thing about being a soldier! You know that.”   
  
He steps into your space and crowds you back against the counter, planting on hand on either side of you and leaning in until your noses nearly brush. “Yeah...I know you’re trying to be polite. But I want you to stay.” He repeats the words seriously, eyes locked on yours.   
  
You nod slowly. What are you supposed to say to that?   
  
As it turns out, you don’t need to say anything; his eyes drift to your lips, and you’re at least sensible enough to know what it means when someone looks at you like this. You’re still struggling to initiate contact most of the time, but you’ve gotten a bit less nervous in the last few days, now that you know he really  _ does _ want you.   
  
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and let your eyes fall shut, body pressed flush against his. He’s always so careful -- at least when you’re not both entirely overcome with mindless lust -- and his lips are gentle against yours, coaxing rather than demanding.   
  
The kiss lingers, but only for a moment. He pulls back, eyes worried. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”   
  
Pushing up on your tiptoes, you stabilize yourself with one hand on his shoulder, brushing the other along his cheek. “I  _ want _ to,” you assure him, and press your lips to his.   
  
You mean to be gentle, just as careful with him as he is with you -- something changes, though. Maybe it’s just the way the emotion swells between the both of you, tenderness and worry and things neither of you are really ready to consider yet. Whatever the cause, though, the slow pace doesn’t last long. Soon, you’re stumbling toward the bed, tugging at each other’s clothing clumsily and laughing between deep, messy kisses.   
  
You’ll stay.   
  
For tonight, he’s here -- you both are -- and although your heart aches with the knowledge that it could be the first and last night you have like this...you hope.   
  
So far, hoping has worked out pretty well for you lately.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Nyx smiles at the ceiling, turning his head to watch ______, curled on her side next to him. He still has a hard time believing how lucky he is. She’s here, and she’s not going anywhere…   
  
He swallows. As long as tomorrow goes well. As long as he comes home safe. Then it’ll be okay, then he can let himself trust this.   
  
“What?” She asks, the hint of a giggle in her voice. When he turns back to her, her eyes are closed, but her lips are curved in a contented smile.   
  
He blinks, considering for a moment before responding. “What do you mean?”   
  
Better to start there. He doesn’t think he’d said anything aloud, but-   
  
She hums, and shifts to press herself closer along his side. “You were watching me. I was wondering why.”   
  
Well.   
  
He reaches for a response, but there’s nothing -- what should he even say to that? Her eyes had been closed, right?   
  
She elaborates, huffing softly.   
  
“Well, I mean...your breathing. It changed. You were smiling.”   
  
He blinks. “My...breathing.” He repeats the words flatly. This doesn’t really make things much clearer -- not that he minds her knowing, but he’s still not sure how she knows.   
  
The words seem to have the opposite effect to what was intended, though, and she whines under her breath, turning over.   
  
He follows, wrapping himself around her plush body.   
  
“Oh,  _ nevermind _ !” She mutters. “You just sounded…”   
  
Her ears are pink.   
  
It really isn’t fair how cute she is.   
  
He gives in to the urge to kiss the shell of her ear...and then a bit lower, planting lingering open-mouthed kisses along the length of her neck and shoulder.   
  
She whines again, although the tone is different.   
  
It does seem to earn him a bit of forgiveness, though, as she finishes the thought. “You sounded  _ content _ .”   
  
She knows, he realizes -- she knows what he sounds like when he’s content, even if he doesn’t speak. He’s not even sure _ he _ knows what that would sound like, but she’s paid _ that  _ much attention. She knows when he’s happy, even when she can’t see him.   
  
_ Six _ .   
  
The tightness in his chest is back, and for a moment his eyes sting with tears at the thought before he swipes them away with the back of his hand.   
  
The motion makes her turn, curious, to nestle close against his side.   
  
Her voice is so soft, but gods, it’s almost unbearably tender. “Are you okay?”   
  
He doesn’t deserve this, and he knows it, but he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself; at first, all he can do is nod weakly, hand pressed to his eyes as if that could stay the emotions he feels rising. “Yeah.”   
  
Is that his voice? He sounds hoarse...he sounds  _ terrible _ , really.   
  
For a moment, she stiffens against him, and he thinks she’ll argue. She doesn’t, though, settling again with a soft sigh. After a second, he feels her lips against his shoulder, a barely-there kiss that only serves to choke him up more. “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen. And if you don’t, or can’t, I’ll be here. We can just...be together.”   
  
He laughs slightly-unsteadily, and leans in to kiss her hair again. “It’s fine,” he croaks. “Just...a little overwhelmed.”   
  
She sighs, although it’s close enough to a laugh that he chooses to think that’s what it is.   
  
“This is a lot for both of us, isn’t it?”   
  
There’s a hesitance in her voice he’s not sure he likes; after a pause, she continues, her smile audible. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re taking it slow.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
They don’t speak again -- there aren’t any words needed, at least for the moment, and soon enough sleep claims them both.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
He twines their fingers together, not yet ready to let go. She’s walked with him all the way to the gate checkpoint, but he can’t take her any further…   
  
But he’s got somewhere to be; more than that, he’s got a job to do. And it’s for her sake, in part -- a thought that barely gives him the strength to pull away, hating the way it feels as her fingers slip from his grasp.   
  
She bites her lip and watches him with worried eyes. As much as she tries to hide it, she’s no good at covering up what she feels, and he’s no stranger to people looking at him with that kind of concern...even if it has been a while.   
  
He shakes his head to banish the memories that threaten, and offers her the most genuine smile he can. “I’ll be home in a week, probably less. Don’t worry, it’s just routine.”   
  
She nods.   
  
“And if anything happens…”   
  
“Call Crowe or Libertus if you need something.” He laughs, and continues. “They won’t know where I am, and they wouldn’t tell you if they did, so don’t ask...but they’ll be able to help with anything while I’m gone.”   
  
It doesn’t elicit the expected reaction -- she just rolls her eyes and waits for him to finish. “Yeah, I  _ know _ . “Secret” does actually mean something,  _ obviously. _ ”   
  
Behind them, the guard clears his throat. Nyx shoots a glare over his shoulder, only to be met with an unimpressed blank stare, and the guard tapping at his watch.   
  
Time’s running out, yeah. He knows.   
  
“I just...if anything happens, you do  _ everything _ you can to come back safe. Okay?” She swallows. “I know you’re going to put yourself on the line for your comrades, and I know that’ll come at a cost sometimes. I’m not asking you  _ not _ to, I’m just asking you to be careful, and don’t take risks you don’t have to. I’ll be waiting for you, you know.” Her expression twists; for a moment, he wonders if this isn’t the first time she’s said goodbye to someone like this...someone who didn’t come back, maybe.   
  
That thought hurts...but there’s no way Nyx is going to let that happen this time if he can help it. He caresses her cheek briefly, the barest touch; it’s all he can allow himself. “I’m worth the wait,” he assures her.   
  
Thankfully, that at least elicits a smile -- even one tinged with worry and melancholy.   
  
If he’s honest, he  _ is _ worried. And if this goes south, if he doesn’t come back, he wants to remember that the last time he saw her, she was smiling.   
  
He hears the guard take a step forward, and nods to him. It’s time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was supposed to transition into Reader seeing Crowe and Libertus but I don't like to timeskip too much in a single chapter and this one already had enough going on emotionally that I didn't want to disrupt the flow.
> 
> Merry Christmas to the folks who celebrate it, TGIF to those who don't, and a very hearty thanks to everyone who reads and comments and kudos. <3 Your support is especially important at this time of year when the weather and a lot of other things can drag one down...myself included.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds herself lonely, on a night she'd usually see Nyx. He _did_ tell her to find Crowe and Libertus if she needs anything...

Even if you’ve spent the last six months visiting Nyx twice a week, you’d spent so many _more_ years before that without him in your life...so you really shouldn’t be feeling at loose ends after a mere three days, you consider.   
  
Unfortunately, whether or not you _should_ , you _do_ . Work is even more of a slog than usual, and each night you collapse onto the couch and try not to think -- which only mostly works.   
  
You don’t want to spend all of your free time worrying about him. For one thing, he’s been doing this for years (a lot of them), and you’re sure that if he’s managed to stay safe this long, he must be doing something right…   
  
But it only helps so much to remind yourself of that consciously, and as bad as the worry is on normal nights, tonight you should be there.   
  
Tonight you should be with _him_ .   
  
You’ve been on edge all day, at the thought of eating alone; it’s funny, you suppose, that it took you this long to figure out just how much your little routine with him means to you.   
  
Either way. You can’t just sit home, on the couch, kicking your foot against the coffee table and staring at the wall as your mind races with paranoid possibilities.   
  
You scratch under Mister’s chin and sigh. “Guess I better just go do it, huh?”   
  
His answering meow makes you smile, which earns you a fuzzy headbutt to the chin. “Alright, alright,” you mutter. “I’ll go.”   
  
As you pull on your shoes again and grab your purse, you catch him watching you, perched on the back of the couch.   
  
“I’ll be back in a couple hours, don’t worry!” you tell him. It’s probably weird to talk to your cat like a person, at least to the degree that you do...but the only person who really knows about that (at least, besides Mister himself) is Nyx, and that’s not the worst thing. He doesn’t seem to mind it, at least.   
  
You pull the door shut, biting back a grin and brushing a lock of hair behind your ear nervously. “Guess it’s time to meet the family.”   
  
It may or may not help the strange loneliness, but...he told you to seek out Crowe and Libertus if you need anything, and tonight you need company.   
  
You just hope they don’t mind…   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
The walk isn’t a long one, just a few minutes, but it gives you plenty of time to work yourself up about how badly things might go -- so it’s something of a relief when Crowe greets you by name, standing and waving. “______!” she calls, drawing the attention of the others at the table.   
  
You wave in return, nerves overtaking you as you make your way down the stairs.   
  
If she registers your shyness, though, she doesn’t show it, one hand pressed between your shoulderblades as she leads you to the table. “C’mon, we were just talking about you.”   
  
You blanch.   
  
She doesn’t appear to notice, ushering you to sit between her and the same one you’d sat next to last time.   
  
He holds a hand out, nodding to you. “Libertus,” he says. “Nice t’meetcha properly.”   
  
You nod, attempting a smile.   
  
“Don’t worry about the others,” he continues, “they’re always like this.”   
  
There’s a chorus of protests from the few people around the table, but the clear humor in it is enough to at least make you grin. Maybe this will be okay after all.   
  
“Hey!” One of them crows. “We got a smile!” He offers a hand with a grin. “I’m Pelna. And anyone Nyx likes as much as you is alright in my book.”   
  
Crowe snorts as she dishes up a plate, but she doesn’t hesitate to set it in front of you with a smirk. “Eat up...you must either be a masochist, or have piss-poor taste in food...but I guess your taste in _men_ should’ve left that in question anyway.”   
  
You bristle.   
  
You’d wanted to be nice, keep your head down, not cause any trouble -- you can’t let that go, though, even if she is the next closest thing to family to Nyx.   
  
You see Libertus lean over the table, out of the corner of your eye, to swat lightly at Crowe...but it doesn’t stop you.   
  
“Alright,” you hear yourself say, the adrenaline leaving you shaky. “So which of us are you jealous of, me? Or him?”   
  
The table goes silent.   
  
She watches you for a long moment, dark eyes intent on your face. When she stands and takes a step toward you, you start to recoil-   
  
Crowe claps you on the shoulder.   
  
You don’t know when you closed your eyes, but you stare at her face, terrified of what you’ll see...and find yourself met with a delighted grin.   
  
“Oh, you’re _definitely_ too good for him…” Something in her expression drops. Not just the bravado, but something else that leaves behind a melancholy cast. “...but I’m glad you’re foolish enough to want him.”   
  
Nodding hesitantly, you shift in place. She releases you promptly, and you sit...but something in the air is different after the interaction.   
  
When you turn to regard the others, you’re still met with smiles. They refill your plate not once, but twice, and your cup’s never fully emptied -- even the solicitude feels different, though. It wears on you, slowly, not knowing what exactly is different. You’re not from Galahd, and you don’t know all that much about it. Galahdians are notoriously quiet about their cultural practices; not unwilling to talk about it with respectful people, but not the sort to post about it online where anyone could see. Not when Insomnians (or too many of them, anyway) take that as an invitation to start harassing people, anyway.   
  
It’s a relief when Libertus leans over to speak in an undertone. “ _They’re treating you like family,_ ” he informs you.   
  
Your stomach drops out. “They’re _what_ ?” You whisper the words back, staring at him with wide eyes. He can’t seriously mean that… _already_ ? They’ve accepted you this easily?   
  
He just laughs. “Eh, the Elders might not be quite so welcoming right away, but we’re a pretty open-minded bunch...and we trust our guts.”   
  
Pelna slaps him on the back as he passes. “Yeah, and you’ve got plenty of those!”   
  
Libertus grouses back, but your gaze is locked on the table. The plate in front of you. You’d...you thought you were past this, getting all worked up any time someone even alluded to your size. You’re a grown-ass adult, after all, and you’ve tried so hard to be less self-conscious…   
  
Distantly, you hear the sound of an impact, and an exclamation -- just before you feel hands on your shoulders, pulling at you until you twist in your seat. Crowe shoves Libertus until he moves, and then takes his place beside you.   
  
“Hey.” She sounds pissed, but as she looks at you, her expression seems to calm a little. She brushes a hand along her neck. “Look, we’re not the most delicate bunch.”   
  
There’s a chorus of agreement, and she shoots a look over her shoulder. “ _But,_ we don’t judge, and we don’t treat people bad for things they can’t help. Your body’s your body. It gets you places.” She rolls her eyes. “Nyx likes it, anyway, and I guess you probably enjoy it when you’re with him…”   
  
She sounds a bit strained -- the topic’s clearly one that leaves her uncomfortable for some reason, and you try to wave her off, but she continues, stubborn to the last. “We tease Libertus because we know he doesn’t care. We’ve had years to get to know what we can tease him about. But _we don’t know you yet_ .”   
  
You nod, not sure how to respond. You’d rather disappear forever than be under all this scrutiny right now; it feels too much like school, or your disastrous attempt at college before you gave up and moved on, sitting at a table with a bunch of people you barely-know who are all intent on you.   
  
Crowe sighs and swipes a drink from Libertus’ cup. “ _Look._ We’ll try not to say anything that’ll hurt you, but you gotta speak up so we know if we do. And I’ll make sure to put these knuckleheads in their place if they get out of line, _alright_ ?” She watches you closely. You’re not sure what she sees, but she presses just a bit further, clearly expectant. “We got a deal?”   
  
Biting your lip, you nod hesitantly. “I’ll...try.”   
  
That seems to be enough for her to relax fractionally. “Alright.”   
  
You chance a smile, even though you’re pretty sure the attempt is laughable.   
  
No one laughs, though.   
  
And a minute later, Pelna settles on your other side, contrite. “Sorry about earlier. I’ll mind my tongue, don’t worry.”   
  
You notice that the others are studiously not looking at the two of you, making themselves busy with other things -- but it’s quiet, and you know they’re listening. “Thanks.” You say. “Maybe let’s not talk weight for the time being, though.”   
  
On impulse, you grab the bottle and top off his cup; it seems like the thing to do, clearly an act of acceptance and perhaps affection to them. And from the way his expression softens marginally and the conversation resumes around you, it certainly seems it was the right call.   
  
“To Nyx,” he toasts, holding his cup aloft. “That he gets back safe, and lays his claim _properly_ .”   
  
He turns to look at you meaningfully at the end...and you are suddenly uncomfortably aware that as the others add their assent to the toast, they are _also_ watching you meaningfully.   
  
You’ve got a feeling there’s some kind of...well, courtship ritual or something, that Nyx neglected to inform you of and the two of you skipped right past, but you’re not about to start opening that topic with the people at the table right now.   
  
They’re nice, and they’ve made you feel welcome in ways you never expected, but this is a discussion you’re pretty sure you should have with Nyx in private…   
  
...not least because you’re not confident it won’t involve an argument.   
  
You settle into your chair just a bit lower, trying not to dwell on the matter too much. You’re just about to turn and ask Crowe about her necklace for a change of pace when someone’s phone rings.   
  
It’s hers; as she pulls it out, she frowns at the number, but answers anyway.   
  
“Hello?”   
  
Whatever she hears, her face twitches, although she holds herself straight and still while she listens.   
  
Finally, whoever is on the other line hangs up...and she sags into a chair.   
  
“They’re back,” she says.   
  
She doesn’t smile, and she doesn’t meet your eyes.   
  
Your whole body goes cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will give you chapter 9 as soon as possible, I swear! There is still going to be a happy ending, nothing permanently bad has happened, it is going to be okay.
> 
> But I had to throw in a lil bit of peril to keep it spicy, y'know...gotta give them some challenges to overcome.
> 
> And in the next few chapters, you'll get more H/C, some explorations of my personal ideas about Galahdian culture, and lots of warm fuzzies courtesy of our lovable cast, including Mister.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has a rather mixed bag of experiences with Crowe and Libertus, but some progress is made...at least, probably?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: panic attack, dissociation/disorientation, hyperventilation, trauma response to perceived anger. Reader is manhandled and eventually carried to the couch during the panic attack without being asked consent (which she is unable to give at the time), and the clueless fools with her do not offer comfort, although she finds enough to ground herself and start to come down. Please read with this in mind. And please, if someone you know is having a panic attack, _do not handle it like this_.

The silence around the table doesn't last long, as the shock wears off. The Glaives seem almost to take the news of Nyx's injury in stride, barely having reacted when Crowe explained the situation; you suppose it must be that they're accustomed to it, but you really can't imagine how it would feel not to have a sick, sticky feeling of dread curl in the bottom of your gut at the revelation that he is  _ hurt _ \-- and not just hurt, that he and the others were rushed back to the city and whisked away for surgery.

You're not sure if you feel better or worse knowing Nyx is the worst off...but you certainly aren’t surprised, at all.

Somewhere along the line, Pelna refilled your cup again. You stare at it while your thoughts race. Drinking feels impossible. The cup stays full, mockingly so, as if to say 'look, see? For all you have and all you desire, nothing else matters to you when you worry about him'.

You trace the grain of the wooden table with your eyes instead, letting the Glaives’ chatter wash over you.

Now and then you tune in enough to pick up a bit more detail -- Libertus grousing about how it's not the first time, Pelna leaning cautiously past you (always keeping at least a few inches of air between) to smack him on the shoulder, Crowe insisting that Nyx's luck 'isn't gonna last forever' and suddenly cutting herself short -- but you don't look at them, and it's hard to call what you're doing 'listening'.

It’s interesting to watch the group, you register remotely, in part because no one seems to have a set seat they consider ‘theirs’; they rotate freely, settling beside each other or standing and moving around without any particular concern. It’s casual, warm...it’s  _ familial _ , really; that’s the only word for it. And as you let your mind focus on that instead, it does bring you an odd sort of comfort.   
  
“He’ll be  _ fine _ ,” Crowe scoffs, waving Pelna off. “You know as well as the rest of us that Nyx bounces back fast.”   
  
Libertus rolls his eyes. “I’m tellin’ you, he’d pull it off in a leg cast, if he had to!”   
  
This earns him a few chuckles, and a “that’s more a  _ you _ thing, Lib,” from one of the others whose name you’ve already forgotten.   
  
Pelna, on the defensive now, holds his hands up; he watches you, an odd sort of expression on his face. “I’m just saying, there’s a good chance he won’t be the only contender, and it’d be a shame if the wrong person got it. You want her first time to be a good one, right?”   
  
Crowe snorts. “Yeah, like  _ yours _ ?”   
  
His nonplussed stare makes you all the more perplexed, glancing back and forth between the two. “Yeah, actually.” His gaze flicks briefly to the others, and he sighs. “Oh, come  _ on _ , you’re  _ not _ going to make things weird for her just because Nyx got my wreath  _ one time _ ,  _ fifteen years ago _ .” He laughs shortly. “We were  _ kids _ , Crowe. It went nowhere. Now we’re comrades, and friends...or should I start bringing up  _ your _ history, and the way you-”   
  
He never gets a chance to finish the sentence; a hand closes on his shoulder and drags him backwards out of the chair as he scrambles not to fall.   
  
You glance up to see the chef standing beside the two of you. You’re not sure when he stepped out of the little stall nearby; you hadn’t noticed a thing. “Enough,” he grumbles. “If you’re gonna carry on about this, do it at home. It’s late. I’m closing up for the night.”   
  
The Glaives share a look among themselves -- they look uncertain, almost, and a glance at your phone tells you why. It’s not all that late, only ten. Usually they’d be here til all hours of the night, especially on a weekend; you’ve had to take circuitous routes to avoid being seen coming and going from Nyx’s apartment around the corner plenty of times, so you’re pretty well aware of how late the restaurant is usually open.   
  
You don’t have any more clue what to make of that than them, although there’s something in his expression when he glances past you when he passes by that makes you wonder if it isn’t partly for your benefit. It would be an odd thing to do for a stranger, you think, but…   
  
...well, the degree of familiarity and acceptance you’ve been shown is already so unexpected that you can’t rule out the possibility entirely. Then again, for all you know, he might simply be taking any excuse to turn in early, himself, or maybe he’s simply annoyed by the choice of topic they can’t seem to let go of.   
  
Regardless, the others mutter amongst themselves, but pile up dishes and box up leftovers together, laughing and bumping shoulders now and then as they work; again, there’s a casual cooperation to it, something you haven’t really seen anyone in Insomnia do. Actually, you haven’t seen anyone do it since…   
  
Well. Since you left home.   
  
You stand, and for a moment, you open your mouth to offer to help...but how to offer? What to say? Would that even be welcome? Unease prickles along your skin as you find yourself frozen to the spot. If you offer, would that be rude like it would be to Insomnians (something you learned the hard way)? Or would it be rude not to? You want them to like you, and you really want them to think you’re good enough for Nyx, and if they decide you shouldn’t be around him because of this, after everything that’s happened, you’re not sure what you’ll do, but-   
  
“Hello-o-o?”   
  
Crowe draws the word out, waving a hand in front of your face. “You still awake in there? Guess we really better get you home.”   
  
Nodding, you turn to leave -- just in time to catch a glimpse of Pelna and Libertus talking very seriously near the railing. Whatever they’re discussing, they’re both leaning close together to speak softly, although they both look...worried, maybe? Uneasy, you’re sure of, but there’s a hint of something...whatever it is, Pelna is insistent about it, and Libertus seems to be  _ mostly _ in agreement…   
  
It’s not your business, you suppose. You’d dearly love to know if it has to do with whatever this wreath-thing they’d mentioned is for, but it doesn’t really seem appropriate to ask now. Maybe you can look online, or see if the library has any books about Galahdian folk traditions -- which you’d bet your last crown is exactly what this is.   
  
You turn to Crowe, only to find that she’d followed your gaze. “I’m ready. Sorry to zone out on you,” you prompt.   
  
The grin when she finally pulls her attention back to you looks forced, somehow.   
  
“Let’s get you back home...and I  _ am  _ walking you back, no arguing. Nyx would never forgive me if I didn’t.”   
  
You laugh. “Yeah, I figured...no arguments here.” With a small smile, you add, “I like the company anyway.”   
  
She huffs and turns away, but you catch a hint of a smile as she gestures you up the stairs.   
  
It’s not til you’re nearly at the top that you hear someone call out from below.    
  
“Hey! Wait up!”   
  
Libertus hurries after the two of you; he’s just the slightest bit breathless by the time he reaches you, but he’s grinning. “Right. Let’s go.”   
  
You stare.   
  
He stares back at you expectantly...and you look to Crowe, hoping she might at least illuminate the situation, or even just explain why everything has suddenly gotten awkward and stilted.   
  
And bless her, she does -- in her usual way.   
  
“You have to tell us where we’re  _ going _ , dumbass, it’s not like we’re mind-readers.” She says it casually, turning to you; after a beat she freezes, eyes going wide. “I...didn’t mean…” The silence returns, twice as awkward now.   
  
You chew on your lower lip. It’s true that you don’t want to be called names even as a joke, but even you can tell from her tone that she didn’t mean it any more personally than she would with Libertus or any of the others.   
  
“I know you don’t mean anything by it,” you offer.   
  
She nods. “I’m sorry. It was still out of line.”   
  
You smile. “Thanks. I’d rather you don’t in the future, but I’m not mad it happened this time.” The wording feels odd, not quite what you’d prefer, but for some reason you don’t feel right saying it’s fine, or being your usual doormat of a self. Maybe it’s the way she apologized, but the interaction feels too significant to brush it off and try to get away from the discomfort as fast as possible like you usually would.   
  
Libertus bumps his shoulder into hers. It seems to do the trick, and she reaches out to clasp your arm. “Directions?” she prompts again; her fingers twitch ever-so-slightly, and she squeezes gently before releasing you.   
  
Nodding, you lead the way.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
You’re not sure why they don’t seem to want to leave you alone after you get home, but they share a terribly-obvious glance on your doorstep, and Crowe suddenly asks to use your restroom...so you let them in.   
  
Libertus, for his part, declines anything to drink, but doesn’t try to hide the obviously assessing way he looks at your apartment in between enthusiastic headbutts to his chin and cheeks from Mister.   
  
You laugh nervously. “Sorry, he, uh. He’s a bit of a…”   
  
Are you really so worked up about this that you can’t even come up with a joke, or anything to say about your weird cat being a weirdo all over your…   
  
...well. You don’t know what Nyx is to you right now. You’re not really entirely sure he  _ is _ ‘yours’, as such, but these are his family, and they’re in your terrible, messy apartment, and even if it’s slightly cleaner it’s still terrible and messy, and your cat is being weird  _ all over him _ .   
  
It was bad enough when Mister was rubbing all over Nyx -- at least that was cute, because you love Mister and could watch him frolic all day, and you love Nyx and could watch him do anything at any time, so the two of them together was a cuteness overload, and really, that was far from the worst part of that night and even at the time you were sure it would be.   
  
Maybe it was just that you know him better; Libertus and Crowe are still all-but-strangers, no matter how fast they’ve warmed to you (and you to them, you admit to yourself). You don’t have the same confidence that they’ll still like you if something weird happens.   
  
You weren’t all  _ that _ confident with Nyx, either, you remind yourself...you really weren’t confident at all, actually.   
  
Thankfully, it doesn’t take Crowe long to finish in the restroom, which at least affords you some distraction.   
  
Especially since she steps out and immediately announces to the room at large “you know, you’ve got the biggest spider I’ve ever seen on your wall in there!”   
  
You blanch.   
  
It’s not that you’re necessarily all  _ that _ scared, but it’s not like you  _ like _ bugs, and you certainly don’t like having them in enclosed spaces...your bathroom is at least a bit better than Nyx’s, but it’s not what you’d call ‘roomy’.   
  
“C’mon, lemme show you!” she insists, grinning at you expectantly, and…   
  
...you follow.   
  
You’re not really sure  _ why _ , either; you really don’t want to see whatever is on your wall, and there’s no good reason for you to just do what she says.   
  
And yet.   
  
You step into the doorway, eyes darting around, only to feel hands on your back, shoving you roughly inside.   
  
The door closes behind you.   
  
You whirl -- only to find yourself almost nose-to-nose with Crowe, who watches you with unrepentant glee. “Alright,” she admits, “I fibbed. No creepy-crawlies, so you can stop looking at me like you’re gonna cry.”   
  
She pauses. “Shit. You  _ are  _ gonna cry, aren’t you?” She doesn’t sound angry at all, just frustrated. Not even at you; it’s the kind of frustrated you get when your socks come out of the dryer slightly-damp, or your soup isn’t seasoned right and you don’t realize it until after you’ve settled down in another room to eat.   
  
It’s the sound of a questionable plan gone wrong, you realize, and the relief leaves you boneless enough to sit on the edge of the tub a bit heavier than you meant to. You wince.   
  
You’re not crying, though, and you don’t think you’re going to; after a few seconds she seems to understand that and relaxes fractionally.   
  
She settles on the closed lid of the toilet beside you, and looks at her hands for a moment. You follow her gaze, noting her short, bare nails. “Got any polish?” she asks idly. It sounds almost uncharacteristic; not the interest in nail polish, necessarily -- you don’t know her well enough to call that odd -- but it sounds more like you do when you’re dodging around a topic. She hasn’t struck you as the sort to do that so far, direct to a fault.   
  
You nod. “Yeah, uh...somewhere.” On impulse, you add, “...want me to grab it?”   
  
Her eyes flick back up to yours; you’re struck suddenly by how expressive they are, a deep earthen brown that makes you ache to be home where nature was everywhere. “Yeah.” she murmurs. “Whatever your favorite color is.”   
  
There’s not a lot under your sink, only a modest amount of nail polish and makeup and hair products compared to most of your coworkers’ apparently-extensive collections -- but then, you’ve heard that sort of thing is normal in Insomnia.   
  
You’d never acclimated, keeping your own collection small-but-useful, so it’s easy to locate your favorite shade when you only have five. Six, you suppose, counting a half-congealed bottle left over from high school that you really ought to throw out but can’t justify, since it’s been discontinued for years and you still haven’t matched it.   
  
And if that isn’t a good illustration for your life, you don’t know what is; a bunch of half-congealed leftovers you’re too scared to let go of, nothing but the same mundane routine, and endless confusion about how other people seem to manage to navigate the tides of fashion when they have so  _ much _ to keep track of.   
  
But that’s depressing to think about, really, and you don’t like falling into a funk with company around. It’s embarrassing, for one thing. You watch Crowe instead, seizing on the very strangeness of her presence as a distraction.   
  
She holds her hand out for the bottle.   
  
You pass it over; you’re not sure what exactly Crowe wants with it, but you don’t mind her using it, if that’s what she’s doing...and you doubt she’s brought you in here just to judge your tastes, so it’s probably a safe bet that she plans to use it.   
  
“Hand,” she says without looking at you.   
  
You watch her nervously, not quite sure what she wants; when you don’t move, she glances back up. “Or should I say ‘shake’?”   
  
That, at least, gets a snort out of you, even if you jiggle one foot with restless energy. “What, you want  _ my _ hand?”   
  
She nods. “Mmhmm.” If your perplexity bothers her, she doesn’t show it.   
  
And at that point, there isn’t much to do except give her your hand. Your nails are still unpainted; you’d only filed them into neat almond shapes last, not painted them like you normally would, and you suppose it will be nice to have them peachy-pink. It’s weird, though, that she’s painting  _ your _ nails.   
  
Weirder still, she’s  _ good _ at it.   
  
As if she knows what you’re thinking, she informs you solemnly “I got a lot of practice.”   
  
You wait for her to continue. After a second or two of focus, her tongue poking out ever-so-slightly, she does.   
  
“I started doing Selena’s -- Nyx’s sister’s -- nails when she was a kid.” She huffs. “Asteria wasn’t keen on it; she didn’t like Insomnian stuff much, even if us kids were all thrilled any time we got our hands on something new.”   
  
Her voice is soft as she speaks, with the kind of far-away tone of someone half lost in memory. “It’s not like she forbade it, but she wasn’t  _ happy _ about it, either, and ‘Lena was always eager for approval, so we mostly did it in secret.” For a second, her hand stills and her gaze drifts up to yours -- there’s mischief in her eyes. “Guess you’ve got a bit of that approval thing in you, too...don’t worry, it’s only  _ incredibly _ obvious.”   
  
She laughs, and you follow suit; the teasing is nice, really. It feels like having a sister, or at least what you’ve always thought having a sister would be like. You’d never had anyone to paint your nails like this, or gossip in a bathroom with.   
  
Yeah. It’s nice.   
  
Of course, knowing you, you fuck it up.   
  
“Why are you doing this?”   
  
You blurt the words out, brow furrowed. “I don’t  _ mind _ , but I’m confused.”   
  
The clarification seems important to you, to ensure that she understands your intent. Unsurprisingly, though, she shrugs it off like everything else.   
  
“I’ve got my reasons.”   
  
You don’t press the matter further -- that seems to perplex her, although she grins at you wolfishly in between nails.   
  
“What, not gonna ask?” She mock-sighs. “You’re no fun.”   
  
Rolling your eyes, you decide to humor her, at least for now. “Alright, what are your reasons, Crowe?” Your voice is cartoonishly resigned, and as you speak you tilt your head to the side and shrug listlessly. It’s hard to keep a straight face, but you manage...mostly.   
  
Your response gets the desired reaction; it even earns you an almost-giggle that she hastily stifles.   
  
“...you might be fun,” she concedes. “You’ll be seeing Nyx soon enough, and there’s no way you’re not gonna mother-hen him twice as hard as usual, so you might as well be put together beforehand -- I  _ know  _ you’re not gonna remember to do this when you’re getting ready to see him.”   
  
Rolling her eyes, she continues. “ _ But _ , if you don’t do it, you’ll wish you had.”   
  
And with that she goes back to painting your nails; after a few seconds she starts to hum something under her breath. It takes you a few bars, but you identify it eventually -- the same tune Nyx had hummed to you on the couch last week, although it sounds...well.   
  
Entirely different, when it’s Crowe, and not just because her voice is higher.   
  
You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice she’s finished until she speaks.   
  
“Looks like you recognize that...don’t tell me he inflicted it on you already?”   
  
Before you even have time to get prickly about her comment, she waves you off.   
  
“I know, I  _ know _ . You love him, you don’t wanna hear me badmouth him.” She grabs the bottle from the counter and stows it back where you’d retrieved it from -- you can’t help but marvel that she noticed and remembered.   
  
It doesn’t distract you, though.   
  
“Why do you talk about him like that?”   
  
For a moment, Crowe just shrugs, and traces the patterns of your wallpaper with her gaze.   
  
“Well?” you prompt. You’re not about to let this go.   
  
Sighing, she continues to watch the paper. “We’ve always been like that…” With the kind of expression most people would reserve for finding cat poop in their shoe the hard way, she adds, “Libertus, too, but  _ don’t _ tell him I said that. I don’t care if you’re Nyx’s lover, I’ll still end you.”   
  
With anyone else, you might feel at least a bit of worry, but...for some reason, with Crowe, all you can think of is how painfully-honest she is, the way she’d grinned at you like a child when she told you she’d lied about the spider, how awkward she was at apologizing over dinner...it’s not that you don’t think she  _ could  _ hurt you; you’re certain she’s telling the truth, as best she knows it.   
  
But you don’t think she  _ would _ , and that’s an important difference.   
  
As you chew on your lower lip, mulling over this strange twist of events, it takes you a moment to realize she’s started rummaging through your drawers and muttering to herself. You’re torn -- not sure whether to ask what she needs, ask her to stop, or just wait and see where things go -- but the decision is taken out of your hands swiftly.   
  
She holds the hair ties aloft with a satisfied expression, and nods to you. “Turn around. Don’t touch anything, you’ll fuck up your nails. Try not to fidget.”   
  
The instructions are curt. Brusque, even...but you’ve certainly noticed by now that that’s Crowe. All the time, too; at least from the looks of it.   
  
It’s easier to comply, and you don’t mind doing so, even if you still wonder what exactly she’s doing…   
  
And again, she seems almost to know what you’re thinking, explaining  _ just  _ as you’re seconds away from giving in to the mounting curiosity and asking.   
  
“You want your hair to look cute, right? I know just the thing. He won’t know what to do with himself.”   
  
You stare at your still-drying nails.   
  
“Not that you’re not cute,” she amends awkwardly. “I just meant…”   
  
You would nod, but her fingers are carding through your hair, sectioning off pieces and twisting them over and around each other neatly along your scalp -- instead, you murmur something you hope sounds affirmative.   
  
You’re cute, you guess...but she’s probably right, you’re not that much to look at, are you? And yeah, he’s been pretty interested so far, you suppose, and he’s been nice, but Nyx is always nice. That’s how he is. You’re still half-certain some other girl will come along and catch his interest; someone better for him, someone more sociable, more confident. Someone who could love him better than you, who’d deserve him more than you ever can.   
  
Really, you don’t know why you thought this was a good idea, but there’s no way you can give it up now -- you’ve had a taste of what you tried so hard not to long for, and you’re all but addicted. As long as he wants you, you’ll keep coming back. Hell, as long as he  _ tolerates  _ you, you’d even take that.   
  
But you know it’s probably not destined to last. Or, rather, you know there’s no realistic way it  _ could _ , when he’s so... _ him _ . And you, well.   
  
A soft impact to the back of your head, not enough to even sting, just enough to make you jump, drags you away from the train of thought. “ _ Hey _ .”   
  
Her voice is surprisingly sharp as she speaks; the tone is angry, nearly, and it makes something in your gut twist miserably. Your arms break out in goosebumps -- you need to get  _ away _ , gods, you want to run, get outside, or anywhere, really. You want to be in the sun, you  _ need _ the warmth on your face and the breath in your lungs and the wind in your face,  _ Astrals, the door is closed and you have to go because you cannot breathe _ -   
  
And almost before you know it, there are hands on your arm and you’re being hauled up and away from the edge of the tub, stumbling blindly through the tears, and you hear Crowe’s voice muttering “ _ shit _ ” before calling loudly for Libertus…   
  
Things are confusing for a moment; you try to pull away, but someone is holding your upper arms in a painfully-tight grip, pushing you back against the floor, or is it the wall? You don’t know, because you don’t know which way is up. You don’t remember what ‘up’ is supposed to feel like, and your vision is swimming, and then...and then…   
  
And then there are warm, broad hands on you, and the world shifts sickeningly -- you moan miserably and try to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go without some way to orient yourself properly. Just as soon as you think it, though, the motion stops, and you’re settled flat. It doesn’t help much, at least at first, but Mister is on top of you suddenly and the weight and warmth on your chest remind you that you  _ do _ have a body, still.   
  
He bumps his head against your cheek. Once, and again, until you suck in a shaky breath. You manage to blow it out, but somehow your chest seems to be stuck like that…   
  
At least, until Mister headbutts you again. You breathe.   
  
You don’t know how long it is; by the time you’re aware enough of your body to notice that your cheeks are cold and wipe the tears away with one trembling hand, you have to flex it to get sensation back into your ring and pinky fingers. It takes a while longer to notice that the water is running in the kitchen. You would sit up to find out why, but Mister reaches out and settles one paw on your cheek, just beside your lips. He flexes it just the tiniest bit, the kneading motion oddly comforting.   
  
It looks like you’re not going anywhere for now.   
  
You sigh.   
  
As much as you still want to move, to flee before whatever awful-thing-you-definitely-should-have-expected-but-didn’t can happen, you just don’t have the strength.   
  
Staring at the tear-blurred ceiling becomes overwhelming after only a few seconds, so you close your eyes.   
  
You knew this was going too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, y'all, I didn't plan for this to get angsty but it turns out Reader has some serious RSD and apparently some trauma responses relating to expressions of anger.
> 
> She will be fine, I swear. Crowe is washing dishes and will do better in the future. Crowe and Libertus _both_ are going to learn what to do when someone has a panic attack instead of being dumbasses. It is going to be okay, but they are, as they say, 'rough around the edges'.
> 
> I'd initially planned for this to transition into more discussion of the upcoming festival involving wreaths of flowers...but I'll give you a hint, if you care to go on a search to try to figure out what real-world festival I'm heavily referencing.
> 
> -There is a particular superstition involving bonfires and couples that will absolutely come up  
> -It may have been the inspiration, tangenitally, for a piece in Disney's Fantasia
> 
> And a quick disclaimer, because I know it would catch my eye in a bad way and it may catch some of yours, too -- the festival in question is not specifically sexual, it will not involve any sexual content, the 'first time' referenced here is not euphemistic but literally the first iteration of this festival she is attending, and most importantly _this is going to be much more queer than canon_. We are not going to do heteronormative bullshit here. There will be gender variance. There will be aroace representation. The contest in question is about catching someone's attention, not any bullshit patriarchal 'claiming a prize' nonsense. And while the words 'stake his claim' were used in the previous chapter in relation to Nyx, that is not a reference to possession, but a declaration of formal intent that can be freely rejected. Reader will have full agency, always, and no one is going to be creepy toward her or anyone else. We don't do that in this house.
> 
> I don't want to actually spoil things for y'all, but I know that sometimes I get uneasy when I don't know an author or where a fic is going, and there are things that seem like they might go in a gross direction. I want my readers to understand that the ambiguity is there because _Reader_ does not know or understand the context yet...and fingers crossed, we'll get to that next chapter.
> 
> This one was already 11 pages instead of the usual 6-8, though, so I cut it where I cut it.
> 
> Thank you for reading! And thank you so, so much to everyone who comments and leaves kudos. It has been a difficult, painful couple of weeks and I'm deeply grateful to be back to working on PF. All my best to every one of you in this new year. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader had a rough night...at least her morning is better, for certain given values of 'better'.
> 
> Meanwhile, Nyx gives some thought to the festival that's been on everyone's minds.

You wake disoriented.   
  
For a few horrible, sickening, panic-filled seconds you don’t know where you are -- your legs won’t move, restrained together somehow -- and there’s light filtering through the window beside you, you can see at least that much through your bleary, sleep-crusted eyes.   
  
As you fumble your way upright (or at least somewhat upright) and suck in a breath to scream, you push  _ just _ wrong in the course of your flailing, and roll yourself onto the floor with a heavy  _ thud _ .   
  
You groan, and curl in on yourself, pillowing your head on one arm to at least keep it off the cold laminate. “Ngh _...ow. _ ”   
  
No one comes to see what the thud was, though, and it’s at this point you see the terrible half-price rug you’d picked up on a whim, over by the dining area, and…   
  
...you’re at home.   
  
Something feels different; wrong, subtly. It’s your apartment, but somehow you don’t feel quite right about it.   
  
You pick through the memories from last night slowly. You were in the bathroom with Crowe, and she...you... _ oh _ .   
  
That memory leaves you shaky all over again -- and as you carefully untangle yourself from the blanket someone had retrieved from your bed and clamber back up onto the couch, the note laying prominently on the coffee table doesn’t make you feel better at all.   
  
It’s written in a messy-looking scrawl; you assume it’s probably Crowe’s handwriting, which means you  _ really _ do not want to know what’s in it.   
  
It might be fine, sure...or it might be her telling you that you should never speak to any of them again.   
  
Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.   
  
Despite sleeping on the couch, your hair is still twisted into the strange style Crowe had put it in last night, and it really hasn’t come loose; while you work your way through the last of your morning ablutions, brushing your teeth and trying not to judge your own reflection too much, it catches your eye. It’s not a bad style, exactly, but...it’s  _ weird _ . Was it some kind of hazing? If it was, what was the point of painting your nails? They still look neat enough, thanks to the fast-dry polish you always use…   
  
Either way, you’re not ready to think too much about last night yet. You’ve got the day off, and you’d like to enjoy it at least a little bit. Maybe go to the park?   
  
Well, knowing yourself, you’ll probably just go grocery shopping during your ‘Safe Hours’ where you (probably) won’t run into anyone you don’t want to see. And then you’ll come home, and cook, and watch things online, and try to tune out your entire life until tomorrow when you can bury yourself in work.   
  
Yeah, that’s a good plan.   
  
You pull the ties from the ends of your hair rougher than you probably should, wincing, and start to card your fingers through the strange style to loosen it-   
  
-and stare.   
  
Your reflection is still  _ you _ , there’s no denying that, but your hair is...perfect? You have the most gorgeous defined waves, like something right out of a fancy photo spread.   
  
Somehow...you have model hair.   
  
You scramble your way back into the living room as fast as your short, chubby legs will carry you, barely dodging Mister as he skitters unhelpfully underfoot. “ _ Shit! _ ” you mutter, grabbing for the paper -- and you finally realize what’s different.   
  
The clutter is...not there.   
  
Sure, there’s still stacks of papers on the table and coffee table, but the loose odds and ends have been corralled in a bowl or two on each surface, and as you crane your neck over your shoulder, the kitchen is…   
  
_ Well _ .   
  
Has it been this clean since you moved in? You’re not an untidy person by nature, you were always pretty orderly for a kid, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day, it seems like, and whenever you’re not working, you’re dreading going back to work -- not that you hate your job or anything, it’s just tiring -- so there’s never any energy left for more than the bare necessities and things just sort of slide.   
  
Your dishes aren’t even in the drainer, they’re all in the ugly glass-fronted cabinets.   
  
You can’t make yourself look at the stove.   
  
The thought squeezes your chest tight; what’s worse, for it to be the same reminder of your fuck-ups, or for it to be perfect and spotless, too, a reminder that Nyx already has better people in his life, and certainly doesn’t need  _ you  _ and your fuck-ups spoiling whatever good things he’s got going?   
  
Something buzzes in your pocket -- your phone.   
  
Numbly, you fumble it out.   
  
An alarm, the second one you’ve got set for mornings, which explains what woke you up; when you’ve fallen asleep that hard after an emotional crash, you don’t wake up easily on your own, but you’d assumed it had been Mister that roused you.   
  
Either way, you’re awake now...and boggling.   
  
You’re still a bit unsteady as you make your way back to the couch (and it doesn’t help that you’re distracted by the bouncy cascade of loose curls falling around your face that you keep wanting to touch), but despite the near-miss with the leg of the coffee table you settle down without difficulty.   
  
Which one first, you wonder? You thumbed off the alarm, but you’ve got at least three missed calls, and more messages you don’t dare read.   
  
You’ve also got a note addressed to you in your  _ very-clean apartment _ that you  _ also  _ don’t dare read.   
  
But the note may explain what happened...and you  _ do _ need to know what happened, you suppose.   
  
With a miserable whimper, you flip the paper over.   
  
‘ _ Hey _______,’ _ it says.   
  
‘ _ Sorry about scaring you. Lib’s going to kick my ass for it later, and I guess I’ll deserve it, but I hope the apartment makes up for it a little bit. If you get this before 10:00, give me a call. If it’s after, I’ll be on duty, but you can call Libertus. We’ll stop by this evening if we don’t hear from you. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ P.S., do us all a favor and give Nyx a call. It’d make his day, and keep him quiet -- he’s a terrible patient. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ C’ _ _   
_ _   
_ You chew on your lower lip as you read, tapping your right foot idly. She doesn’t sound mad...maybe it wasn’t anything you did? Maybe…   
  
Sinking back into the couch, you press the heels of your palms over your eyes until you see colors-that-aren’t and try to remember how to keep breathing. You really,  _ really _ don’t want to check the messages on your phone, not least because it is not yet 10 o’clock, but you also passionately want to pretend you’re not awake so you don’t have to talk to Crowe.   
  
You’ve got a feeling she probably isn’t mad at  _ you _ , personally. That helps, at least a little.   
  
It doesn’t actually solve the problem, though, which is that you don’t know  _ why  _ she was upset in the first place; until you know that, you really can’t say for sure that it wasn’t you, and that crucial bit of ambiguity does not make you feel good in the slightest…   
  
It’s only the thought that one of those missed calls might be from Nyx that convinces you to pull your phone out, breathing as slowly as you can manage through your mouth and squinting at the little screen as if it might explode.   
  
It does.   
  
Or rather, it vibrates in your hand, making you screech and toss it in the air, and it falls to the laminate floor with a clatter that chases Mister back out of the room…   
  
And the back pops off, scattering the battery in one direction and the bulk of the phone in another and the cover in yet another.   
  
“Six!” You yelp, diving for the pieces, and managing to smack your elbow soundly on the coffee table -- the phone suddenly matters a lot less, as you turn the air blue and curl in on yourself, laying on the floor for the second time in a surprisingly short amount of time.   
  
The doorbell rings.   
  
“ _ No _ …” you groan.   
  
The last thing you need today is  _ another  _ surprise visit.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
Nyx pries his eyes open with a tired groan, shifting in the bed. It’s not like a hospital bed is the worst place he’s slept -- by far, even recently -- and he’s grateful he’s got at least this much peace.   
  
Not to mention that he’ll be released promptly, no doubt. There’s no point in having someone take up a bed who doesn’t need it, and thanks to a potion or two, he’s weeks ahead in the healing process in a matter of hours, but getting shrapnel dug out of his gut wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. Luche and Tredd had come out alright, or at least that’s what he’d been told, and he’s glad to know it was worth it...but even Nyx can admit that maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so reckless this time.   
  
Not with the festival coming up, anyway. Not if he wants to do this right.   
  
He sighs, and checks for any lines before carefully pushing himself upright. Of course he’s sore, that’s to be expected, but nothing more lingering than a smattering of new scars…   
  
He got lucky this time, but he really should be more careful in the future. That sounds a bit too much like the Captain for his tastes, though -- he’s not old enough to start getting  _ that  _ uptight, is he?   
  
The thought makes him laugh -- and wince, as the motion pulls at muscles overtired from accelerated healing.   
  
The pain only makes him grin more, though; he’s alive, at least, and he’s lucky, and as soon as he’s released, he knows exactly who he’s going to see.   
  
Of course, it’s always hard to keep his hands off ______, and it’s even more important than usual that he doesn’t get carried away…   
  
Still, as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and checks for his belongings, he can’t help the thrill of excitement; at seeing her, of course, but also...to ask her, finally. He’d thought about it so many times in the last six months, but as much as she shied away from him before, it just didn’t seem realistic.   
  
Now, though. He’s sure she’d be willing, it’s just a matter of asking.   
  
It’s been years since he’s gotten anyone’s wreath -- it hasn’t seemed worth the effort, for one thing, and there hasn’t been anyone whose wreath he really  _ wanted _ \-- and truth be told, he aches to claim it properly, from the river, not from climbing some pole. The Elders were right, of course, Galahd is the  _ people _ , first and foremost, wherever they live, and of course they have to adapt to the land they live on now. And he  _ knows _ that…   
  
But to see her in a soft, flowing dress, the hem damp as she waded into the river to place her wreath, to watch it tumble down the rapids until it reached deeper water, until it was far enough that he could dive after it. Would he have to snatch it away from grasping hands, or would there be little competition? He can’t imagine there wouldn’t be at least a few, but he’s quick enough to do it, that much he’s sure of…   
  
And how would she look, watching him? Would she wear her wanting openly, enjoying the sight of him like she has privately? Would she shy away from his embrace when he approached her, minding the damp from the river, or would she laugh and push him back in playfully? How would it be to sit on the banks with her, stealing kisses under the shade of the trees that were like so many grandparents to him?   
  
They could go into the woods that night, and search for flowers they knew they wouldn’t find…   
  
It’s a compelling little fantasy, one that leaves him breathless, any thought of pain far from his mind. Celebrating the solstice in Insomnia won’t be the same in the slightest, but for once…   
  
This time, with her, he wants to try. See what it  _ can _ be, instead of what it’s not.   
  
And maybe someday, he considers as he laces his boots with a grimace at the position it bends him into, he’ll be able to show her a proper festival.   
  
Nyx sits back with a weary sigh. No. He  _ will _ take her back home, and show her just how beautiful Galahd can be; of everyone he’s met here, she’ll understand. He has a feeling she’ll fall in love with his home just as much as him…   
  
“Just as soon as this damn war is over,” he mutters, reaching for his jacket.   
  
For now, at least, he should have a couple weeks of light duty, and a few days off before that...more than enough time to enjoy her company, and work on getting himself ready -- physically  _ and  _ emotionally.   
  
Tonight.   
  
He’s a day late, but he doubts she’ll have other plans. As long as she’ll have him, he’ll see her tonight.   
  
The butterflies in his stomach are almost enough to drown out the lingering ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like all I ever do in these is apologize or ramble so I'm gonna try to keep this one brief! _Someone_ is unexpectedly at Reader's door in the morning...and that someone is apparently _not_ her beau. :D shenanigans afoot!
> 
> Also hell yeah Crowe is kind of a doof when it comes to dealing with people but she's a real bro and does her best for Reader. Women supporting women is how we do things here.
> 
> So now y'all get a little bit more info about the mysterious festival...or at least one part thereof...anyone know what the real-world inspiration was?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and leaving kudos! The next chapter will _hopefully_ include the things I'd intended to be in this one, namely Reader and The Person At Her Door doing Secret Things and giving you more festival-related exposition lol.
> 
> If you're wondering how long this fic is gonna end up being...god only knows. We're probably not going to even get to the festival until chapter 13 or so, and it'll probably take at least a couple chapters to get _through_ the festival, and as far as what comes after...well...there's more stuff after. You'll see. ;D But we're looking at probably 25 chapters or so? Maybe more. Almost certainly not less.


	11. Chapter 11

The figure at the door, when you finally manage to scrape yourself off the floor and answer it, turns out to be wholly unexpected -- the green hoodie looks suspiciously like one of Nyx’s he’d complained about losing a few months ago, but the person wearing it is unmistakably someone else.   
  
“Pelna?” You blink. “You...are Pelna, right? I didn’t get your name totally wrong and embarrass myself?”   
  
He smiles; it’s just a bit crooked, showing a hint of teeth and a great deal of charm. “Snagged your address from Libertus,” he says by way of explanation. “Sorry, I don’t mean to creep you out or anything, but I heard things didn’t go so good last night, and unlike those two dolts I figured you might like answers sooner than later.”   
  
As he speaks, he turns and settles on the steps, to all appearances making himself comfortable. “Anyway, c’mon out when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”   
  
You sort of gawp at him for a moment, but he pulls his phone out to flick through his social media, looking entirely unconcerned -- and being the doormat that you are, you close the door and get ready to go out.   
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
It doesn’t take long, thankfully; you’ve never really been the sort to take all that long getting ready...and your hair, at least, is already done.   
  
You’re nervous about how long it’s taken -- although you’re nervous about everything, right now -- and Pelna already standing by the door again when you open it doesn’t put you more at ease, but the salacious-looking smirk he wears as he gives you a lingering once-over actually does.   
  
“ _ Perfect _ .” He nods to himself. “Oh, he’s gonna  _ lose _ it.”   
  
It’s strange, a little, to be looked at so assessingly, but not in an uncomfortable way; Pelna clearly appreciates what he sees, and that’s immensely flattering, but he leads the way down the steps and pauses, waiting for you with a grin that’s all good-natured fun...and you can’t help but smile in return and follow.   
  
“Nice pants, by the way,” he comments offhandedly.   
  
You stare down at the joggers, suddenly wondering if you should have changed into something else. They seemed like a good choice if you were going to be walking around, but you weren’t really sure where you were going, and they would be comfortable indoors or outdoors, without restricting motion or requiring you to sit more demurely…   
  
...but maybe they’re too casual? You can’t tell if that was supposed to be a barb or not, you don’t know him well enough for that, yet, and-   
  
He snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Hey, c’mon. You awake in there?”   
  
You twitch, startled enough to take a step back.   
  
“...yeah. I’m fine.” You hear yourself say the words, knowing they’re a lie...but he doesn’t challenge them, and you breathe out shakily. Maybe today you’ll have at least a bit of the luck you’ve been missing lately.   
  
As you walk, Pelna shoves his hands in his pockets; the motion draws your eye, and you glance down…   
  
He’s wearing nearly the same pair of joggers.   
  
You might mistake them for the same pair if it weren’t for the subtle detailing along the seams of his, a fine trim that almost looks like embroidery.   
  
As you stare, you hear him laugh.   
  
“Yeah, not my finest work...had to have Libertus fix ‘em up, he’s always been better at this kind of stuff.” He pauses, and then asks with surprising hesitance, “...you like ‘em?”   


You nod, offering an equally-nervous smile. "They're nice…"   
  
He just grins, and after a few seconds, you probe cautiously, “...are we...wearing the same…”   
  
Turning and walking backward a few paces -- and nearly into the road, although there’s only one cyclist who swerves easily -- he watches you with a bemused expression. You can’t help but notice how open he is, his posture easy and his expression plain to read. There’s a playfulness and a smug satisfaction that reminds you a bit of Nyx at times, but Pelna almost has  _ more  _ of a roguish charm than your…   
  
...well, you still don’t know what he is, but you hope he’s yours. At least for now.   
  
“Took ya long enough.” He nods toward a side-street. “Now c’mon, though here, and I’ll show you the good stuff.”   
  
You stop dead in your tracks, nearly colliding with the woman behind you with her nose buried in her phone. “The...what?” Holding your hands up defensively, you frown. “If this is some kind of, uh... _ paraphernalia _ thing, I really don’t-”   
  
He laughs, long and hard and bright; the sound startles you, and from the glances of passers-by and the sudden flight of nearby birds, you’re fairly sure it’s not just you.   
  
The reactions don’t seem to bother him, though. He staggers slightly until he’s close enough to lean on the lamppost, one arm wrapped around himself as he regards you through mirthful tears. “Oh...oh I gotta tell him about  _ that _ one!” he crows. “You’re never gonna live that one down...sorry, but there’s no way I’m keeping this to myself.”   
  
You can’t help the way you hunch slightly at the mirth -- as you make your way through the small side-street, following where you’re led (although you’re not keen on wandering into dark alleys even at midday), you remind yourself that this is one of Nyx’s close friends. He’s not trying to be mean-spirited.   
  
...maybe you can tell him later that you don’t want to be teased about misunderstandings. You chew on your lower lip, hating the way even that thought makes your heart stutter and a chill run up your back.   
  
Why can’t you just be normal? It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be a big deal, and you shouldn’t be  _ making _ it one. There’s no reason to be so uptight about it.   
  
You stop dead in your tracks as you turn the corner and find yourself in the middle of a busy market -- the wide street is full of pedestrians, meandering between the stalls that line the street. People weave in and out of storefronts behind the stalls, too; you’ve never seen so many people in the neighborhood, before, but you don’t come to the Galahdian district during the  _ day _ . You only come in the darkest hours you can, when it’s safe. Or what used to be safe, anyway -- the hours when you knew you wouldn’t bump into Nyx.    
  
During the night, it’s certainly pleasant. There’s a good amount of foot traffic, and people are still plenty friendly. Most nights, there’s music playing from radios, or sometimes buskers, and you can often find people talking and laughing in clusters here and there. It’s nice...and best of all, no one looks at you strangely.   
  
At first, of course, you used to get wary looks when you’d pass by; at least, you seemed to on the rare occasions you’d even try to meet someone’s eyes, and didn’t simply keep your own glued to the sidewalk. In the last six months, though, you’ve gotten to be at least a bit more comfortable walking around, and you started to notice that it’s different.   
  
Insomnia has always been an uncomfortable place. It’s loud, hectic, full of all sorts of people -- and not all of those people mean you well. You’ve always been told that it’s just a part of life, however awful, and all you can do is try to stay safe and out of trouble…   
  
...but the Galahdian district is different, although it took you a while to notice.   
  
You can still feel eyes following you, but they’re just watching you like anyone. It’s different than being out in the rest of Insomnia; walking around out there feels like...it feels like walking around the woods back home, at night. Your breath catching in your chest, each sound making you startle, never sure what might jump out at you, or from where.   
  
The Galahdian district is more like stargazing in the backyard. You’re still wary, there’s still the potential for something to happen, but you feel secure in a way you wouldn’t elsewhere.   
  
Maybe it’s just that you feel less alone, less weak and helpless and isolated.   
  
And if you thought it was pretty busy at night, the market in the daytime is alive in a way that gives your heart wings -- you can’t help but stop and stare, too stunned to even smile properly.   
  
There are children, young ones and some older as well, playing around stalls; you catch sight of a few dangling precariously off a balcony, up the street, and others across the way crouched around a little fire they appear to be tending with sticks and bits of paper. You snort as you see the mischievous, delighted grins on their faces, each one taking their turn to place something in the fire. If you were a different sort of person, it might make you nervous, but you’d learned to tend fires at their age...and they’re obviously taking care, under the watchful eye of the adults nearest. It’s instructional play -- experiential, your mother would have said. She always approved of that sort of thing.   
  
Some of the older ones carry packages, or younger children. Most of the ones who pass even give you wary smiles, at least once they’ve set eyes on Pelna.

You nod and return their smiles, and wave at the littler ones as they watch you curiously; each time a tiny, chubby face breaks into a delighted grin you have to struggle not to laugh aloud with delight.   
  
You didn’t realize how much you’d missed this. Families and life and people living for more than just the daily grind...   
  
It’s funny -- you didn’t expect to be so emotional about the camaraderie that surrounds you; people helping one another with packages, babies handed from a patron to a shopkeep while they browse, and so many things freely changing hands...you even watch kids snag food from one or two of the little restaurant booths, waved off with a mock-irritated response that obviously hides a grin.   
  
Gods. It’s community, like you haven’t had since you moved to Insomnia. The thought of it, of being so wholly embraced this way, leaves you almost  _ dizzy _ .

  
You turn to see Pelna watching you, an odd sort of smile curving his lips. It’s not really a smirk, and it’s not the silly boyish sort of grin from before, earlier...but there’s something deeply satisfied-seeming about it. Not smug, really, just...content.   
  
As soon as he catches you looking, though he averts his eyes.   
  
You hide your own smile behind one hand, going back to your contemplation of the crowd -- at least, until he suddenly shifts next to you.    
  
“Hey, uh, let’s get to it.”   
  
Frowning, you shrug. “Alright…”   
  
You’re half-joking when you suggest, “What, see someone you’d rather avoid?”, but the way he stares back at you for just a second too long, just a  _ bit _ too seriously, makes you wonder.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
You don’t get an answer to the question you  _ asked _ , but as you follow Pelna through the market a few things do become clearer.   
  
His inquiries about what you know of Galahd lead to the predictable embarrassment -- you know about as much as any random person. Slightly more, thanks to things Nyx has mentioned here and there, but not a lot. And he’s cool about it, which you’re grateful for, but it doesn’t really make it easier to put your ignorance on display.   
  
“Alright,” he starts, glancing at you sidelong. “So you’re a woman, right? And you also do the typical stuff women do, according to social norms.” Pelna gestures to you from head to toe with an open hand. “You’ve got the look, you act the way you’d be expected to, and I’m guessing you like being referred to that way.”   
  
You nod cautiously, not entirely sure you follow where he’s going. “I understand gender versus gender roles, yeah...why?”   
  
He hooks his thumb back toward his own chest, grinning broadly. “And where d’you think I fall?”   
  
With a huff, you tilt your head. “How am I supposed to know?”   
  
His gaze on your sharpens slightly, although he nods. “Good answer. But not just for the reason you probably think.”   
  
Pelna reaches into his pocket, fishing something out. “Close your eyes and hold your hand out,” he says, and is it your imagination, or does he sound ever so slightly breathless?   
  
You comply, though...and while you don’t even feel his fingers brush yours, as averse to touch as ever, you feel something cool and sinuous and metal coil into your palm slowly…   
  
“Alright, open,” he says.   
  
There is a chain in your palm.   
  
It’s a bit like a necklace, although you can tell immediately that it’s not. There are little charms dangling from the links here and there, a flock of tiny birds worked in gold, interspersed with deep green glass beads, so dark they’d look black if it weren’t for the bright mid-day sun.   
  
“It’s  _ beautiful _ .” You barely breathe the words, more air than sound, as you stare at the chain in your palm.   
  
It’s a hair chain, meant to be worn draped over the forehead; just like the ones Nyx’s sister and mother wore in the photo on his desk. You’ve seen plenty of people wearing them -- hell, there are plenty of people in view in the market wearing them, too -- although you’re not sure you’ve ever seen a man wear them…   
  
You glance up at Pelna, frowning. “How should I address you? Aren’t hair chains usually-”   
  
He waves you off with a laugh. “ _ Ahh _ , I’m a man. Don’t worry...chains and braids show the role you take, not your identity. It’s outdated, I guess, but we still keep it up...well, mostly.”    
  
For a moment his usual cheer drops; it’s a few seconds at most, but it’s painfully-honest and almost melancholy, as he glances at the ground. “I’m not one for festivals, anymore, but I used to be.”   
  
You peek at him, stooping slightly so you can see his eyes from under the curtain of his too-long fringe.   
  
“You okay? If you wanna talk...I may not understand, really, but that might make it easier?”   
  
Your palms are starting to sweat as you grow more and more uncertain and anxious about what you’re doing here and why, and you don’t want to get his nice hair chain gross, so you hand it back. His fingers brush yours as you set it in his palm, just barely -- it’s still enough to make you flinch back, cheeks flushed. “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to- oh, gods, I’m…”   
  
After he’s been so nice, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, and you especially don’t want to cause offense, and he’s been so careful about keeping a distance that you really don’t want to make things weird or anything…   
  
He pockets the chain again with a shrug and an easy grin; it doesn’t quite look genuine, but you’re not about to comment on that.   
  
“Nah, ‘s fine. Don’t worry about it.”   
  
Pelna leads the way again, down past the children and their little fire -- as you pass, he gives them a thumbs-up and ruffles the hair of the closest child. It garners an indignant squawk from the one, and delighted giggles from the rest.   
  
“You’ll want to wear a chain, then.” He continues the conversation as if you’d never gotten weird about things. “But that means you gotta pick one -- everybody has their own. It’s completely individual, which is important.” Glancing overhead a moment, he sniffs hard. You wonder if he’s fighting tears, or if you’re imagining it.   
  
“Normally it’d be a gift, from a relative more often than not. But no matter whether it’s given or chosen for yourself, it has to be a representation of who you  _ are _ .” He smacks his own chest with a closed fist. “The core of you.”   
  
For a moment you think about asking. About the birds, about the green beads. It’s beautiful workmanship, detailed and loving. It was probably expensive, and if it was given to him before his first festival...well, he would have been a teenager, you suppose, which means it must have been a gift from a relative.   
  
He doesn’t say any more about it, though, and you’re not about to ask -- not when you know the most likely reason for his reticence, for the hints of deep, closely-guarded emotion.   
  
You’ve seen Nyx with a similar expression, a time or two; only ever when his family is brought up.   
  
So you keep your mouth shut, eyes raking over the booths nearby. You’ve got a suspicion you know what today’s trip is about, then...and as he stops in front of one particular booth, one with a deep indigo oilcloth spread over the top to keep out both sun and rain, you can’t help the nervous giggle. “What, you really want me to…”   
  
You can’t finish the sentence.   
  
You’re not sure if you want the hope -- the pure  _ longing  _ you can hear in your own voice -- to be audible to him or not. Either way, though, he just smiles and leans a hip against the booth’s wooden counter.   
  
“You’re sticking around, right?” It’s said in an undertone, private enough that no one else is likely to hear -- although you’re sure they’ll see how red your face is. “Seemed like you and Nyx are pretty determined, but I guess if you’re not sure you want him…” He crosses his arms over his chest, watching you with that smug glint in his eye…   
  
…and you fold.   
  
“Of  _ course _ I want him,” you mutter, stooping to look over the myriad beads and charms strewn over the surface in little dishes. “I’m not  _ stupid _ , y’know.”   
  
There’s a girl behind the counter; a pretty, bright-eyed sort who looks from you to Pelna and back again with breathless excitement.   
  
“ _ Oh _ ,” she breathes rapturously. “You  _ didn’t _ , you can’t have!”   
  
Two things are painfully obvious: she has misunderstood  _ something  _ terribly, and she is  _ far _ too excited about that misunderstanding for your comfort.   
  
You almost feel bad as she studies Pelna closely, about to bounce right off of the tall stool she’s perched on. “All this time, and you’re finally going to-”   
  
Her volume starts to rise, voice getting shriller and louder with each word and starting to attract attention from the nearer vendors. You can feel heat along the back of your neck, and you’re pretty sure it’s not the midday sun...   
  
He reaches out and tugs at the end of one of her braids.   
  
“Nuh-uh, don’t even start. She’s not here for me, I’m just helping out.” He rolls his eyes. “And mind your manners, will ya? She’s a guest, and she’s already nervous enough.”   
  
He glances to you, shoving his hands in his pockets again. “Sorry…”   
  
You don’t really know what to say, but you smile and shake your head. “It’s alright.”   
  
The girl behind the counter peers at you for a long moment -- long enough that the intent stare makes you uneasy -- before glancing back to Pelna again.   
  
Suddenly, she  _ grins _ . It’s all teeth, a wolfish sort of expression. “ _ Oh _ ,” she says. “Oh, I see. You have a...gentleman friend, and you need a chain for the festival.”   
  
Something in the way she says ‘gentleman friend’ sets your teeth slightly on edge, a smug sort of recognition that seems to follow you everywhere and makes you want to scream. Crowe and the other Glaives, your former classmates, and even the blonde kid that works at the gas station down the way -- although you heard he quit, recently.   
  
It seems like everyone else is entirely confident in what they think your life (your love life, in particular) looks like, and you hate that they’re right.   
  
You take a steadying breath, and paste on a polite smile. “I do, yes.”   
  
She gestures to the table with an open palm.   
  
“I make them…” At the pointed cough from the boy in the next booth over -- because he can’t be more than fourteen at the oldest -- she amends the statement. “Well, on the days when my uncle is busy, I make them here.”   
  
She pauses, and then adds proudly, “I can have it done in under an hour, too, if you have any other shopping you’d like to do. You’ll want more than just the chain for the festival, won’t you? Surely you’d like a-”   
  
Seeming to sense the way her enthusiasm threatens to overwhelm you, Pelna waves a hand to get her attention. “Hey, just let her look for now, alright? I’ll make sure she’s got what she needs, don’t worry.”   
  
You glance up just before he looks away. The melancholy is back, thick in his voice, and equally clear on his face...but it’s not yours to ask about. It’s not your business.   
  
Instead, you let it go. Busy yourself looking over the dishes of beads and charms, a dizzying array. There are so many, you wouldn’t even know where to start…   
  
“Remember,” you hear Pelna say, “It’s about showing yourself. What makes you unique.”   
  
The memory of the tiny golden birds comes to you, and you rake your eyes over the dishes, searching for…   
  
“ _ Those _ ,” you breathe.   
  
Thin, fine leaves, made of softly antiqued copper.   
  
The girl behind the booth makes a soft sound, but you’re too busy looking at the other dishes. Maybe they won’t have what you’re searching for, you can’t be certain; if they don’t, there are some pretty cyan beads that would look nice instead…   
  
You can hear someone approach to your left -- Pelna shifts slightly, and he seems tense, but you can’t worry about that while you’re looking. He’ll say something if there’s something actually wrong. Besides, the newcomer is barely in your peripheral vision, probably looking at the charms as well.   
  
The girl behind the booth makes a squeaky noise.   
  
You  _ almost _ glance up, but as she clears her throat and asks “Can I help you find something?” in a far more polite tone than before, you spot them.   
  
Even more perfect than the leaves, there are tiny white enameled blossoms…   
  
You turn, glancing up at Pelna breathlessly. “Is...is it too much to pick these?”   
  
Your shoulders droop slightly when he doesn’t answer right away. “It’s probably silly, right? Flowers, for something like this…maybe I should just-”   
  
Warm, strong arms wrap around you from behind; before you can panic, Pelna’s shocked expression melts into a smile, and you hear a familiar voice in your ear.   
  
“You’ll look perfect.”   
  
Your heart leaps…   
  
...just in time for reality to come crashing back.   
  
“What are you doing out of bed?” You demand, pulling away and whirling on Nyx, not mollified in the slightest by his sheepish expression. “You were in surgery last night! You should be  _ resting _ !”   
  
He shrugs.   
  
At some point, you’re sure, you’ll be relieved. He’s okay, he’s up and about, so he can’t be that badly off. He’s wearing street clothes and everything, which means he must be doing alright…   
  
But you can’t really be  _ sure _ , knowing him, which is what irks you.   
  
You step in close, enough to cup his cheeks. “ _ If you’re pretending to be okay, so help me, I’ll- _ ”   
  
Whatever you would threaten him with is lost entirely, as he kisses you breathless.   
  
You’re in the market, full of people, in the middle of the day -- you shouldn’t be doing this here, probably, and you certainly shouldn’t wrap your arms around him and melt the way you do, not when there are children about...and there are  _ definitely _ children about, from the mixture of shrieks and giggles, and mock-gagging noises you hear.   
  
Even if you keep things chaste (and of course you do, you have at least some decency), by the time the two of you part, your face is so red you’re afraid any chain you put on would simply melt from the heat rolling off your forehead.   
  
Nyx kisses the top of your head and rests an open palm on your back, directing your attention back to the booth. “That what you had in mind?” He asks.   
  
The girl behind the counter has the charms laid out in a tray, spaced evenly along a fine copper-colored chain that matches the leaves perfectly.   
  
It’s absolutely breathtaking.   
  
You can’t possibly wear it.   
  
“Maybe I should,” you hear yourself start...and you stop.   
  
Today of all days, you don’t want to give up what you’re longing for.   
  
You take a deep breath, and nod. “It’s perfect.”   
  
As you meet Pelna’s eyes first, and then Nyx’s, you can read the approval there, and fondness, and a bit of something else...but you nod again, and smile. “That’s what I want.”   
  
They share a glance over your head -- you feel Nyx’s fingers on your back flex, ever so slightly.   
  
“Then that’s the one.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Triumph_. Y'all, I'm sorry this chapter took so damn long. Figuring out how to get Reader where she needed to be both physically and mentally, and especially trying to figure out when Nyx should show up, was an absolute bear. I agonized over this for far too long, and the only reason it worked out like this is thanks to some seriously sage advice and very kind listening ears from a couple of people in particular.
> 
> Next chapter will involve more market, as the _three_ of them go shopping for the rest of Reader's festival needs...and there will absolutely be more exposition, some of which will be related to the one-shot that was posted earlier today to fill in Pelna and Nyx's one youthful tryst. That one might get a second chapter at some point to talk about why it never went anywhere between the two, but it's just as likely that it'll come up in the main body of this fic, so we'll see.
> 
> And in case y'all haven't figured it out yet, yes, we are going very Slavic with Galahd for this, because...well, there's a variety of visual associations with certain costume designs, but other than that the canon designs borrow from a variety of world cultures and we're never given substantial information about Galahd to begin with, so this is very much just an exploration of possibility. No one actually guessed, but the festival they're celebrating is Kupala Night, albeit with some liberties taken...and more liberties on account of not having a river in Insomnia, but we'll get to that later.
> 
> The embroidery on Pelna's joggers is an homage to the gorgeous embellishments seen on traditional Slavic clothing, that are a very omnipresent part of Slavic culture. The red embroidery on white garments is probably one of the most iconic visual elements, and quite distinctive -- so while this isn't the same thing, I wanted to carry through a little bit of that significance within PF, with the idea that traditional Galahdian clothing tends to involve embroidery, and some people (like Pelna) like to bring some of those elements into their very Insomnian wardrobes as well.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, and commenting and leaving kudos! This is an absolute delight of a trip to be taking y'all on.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader continues shopping with Nyx and Pelna, and acquires more Festival Things!

Walking around the market with Nyx  _ and  _ Pelna is a completely different experience. You’d enjoyed walking around with Pelna -- he’s good company, to be sure -- but there was always a bit of tension and uncertainty. You don’t know each other yet, after all, and he keeps a distance.   
  
With Nyx, though, he’s totally different, deep brown eyes soft and warm, laughing and teasing and tactile in an easy way. Now and then he’ll jab Nyx in the rib with an elbow, or toss an arm around his shoulders comfortably; the camaraderie is nice to see.   
  
The memory of what Pelna had said before, about Nyx being the first to get his wreath...you can’t help but wonder if they’d dated during that time -- not that it matters much, and not that you would even know how to ask if you wanted to -- watching their familiarity and the way they joke with each other.   
  
Normally you’d feel lonely, watching something like this. You’d at least feel out of place, forever the third wheel.   
  
But with them it’s...nice?   
  
Nyx keeps a hand on your waist or back or shoulder at nearly all times, never straying more than a few inches from your side. He’s so animated every time he introduces you to someone, or shares some little anecdote or other -- the stark contrast of how animated he seems now leaves a lump in your throat. He wants to share his homeland with you, that much is clear, and Astrals, you want to see him beam at you in the bright afternoon sun every day, forever. He’s beautiful, absolutely arresting like this, and it warms you all the way through to see him awash with joy…   
  
Pelna seems to agree, often following your gaze as you watch Nyx, and smiling fondly. It’s warm and gentle; not the way Nyx looks at you, but something close, you think.   
  
Maybe there’s still something there. The thought should worry you, or you feel like it maybe should, but again. With the two of them together, things feel good. Not frightening or threatening. You’re not afraid Pelna will take him away; they’re good together, and you’re good together, and if he makes Nyx happy to be around, it’s all you could ask for.   
  
It helps that neither one of them lets you feel left out. Even their jokes include you, as they give you context in between peals of laughter -- and each time they get a reaction out of you, they don’t hide their delight, teasing each other more as if it were a competition to see who could make you laugh the most.   
  
You’re being  _ included _ ,  _ deliberately _ . The realization hits hard, snapping you right out of your reverie. They’re making an effort because they both  _ want _ you here...but not just here. They want you to _ know them _ , they’re sharing that intimacy of their history…   
  
...with  _ you _ .   
  
You blink away the tears that threaten, watching Nyx as he holds a squirming toddler for someone shopping.   
  
“Good catch, right?”   
  
Pelna’s voice is closer than you expected, just to your left and behind you. He leans in slightly and murmurs “I’m glad you know how lucky you are. He deserves the best.”   
  
You study your shoes, intent on mapping them, searing the image into your head as if that could stop the spike of cold nausea in your gut at his words -- you know he deserves the best, and you know that’s not you -- but something happens.   
  
A hand appears in your line of vision, proffering one of the candy sticks the three of you had bought a few minutes before. You turn and look up to meet his eyes, and Pelna smiles. “Dunno if I’d be satisfied with anyone else, but you’re the one for him...and it took him long enough to find you, so don’t go gettin’ any ideas about hiding if you get scared.” He proffers the candy again, watching expectantly until you take it, and then shoves his hands back in his pockets with a huffed laugh. “That’s what we’re for, y’know.”   
  
Your voice is mortifyingly tiny when you manage to choke out a mostly-coherent “wha?” from around the sweet you put in your mouth automatically.   
  
Pelna nods toward Nyx, who turns around just in time to give you another broad, toothy smile. “You’re one of us now, sorry.” 

They both laugh, and the salt-and-pepper-haired man who reclaims his toddler from Nyx’s arms laughs as well.   
  
He glances at you briefly, assessingly. “You boys bringing this young lady to the festival? Better show her a good time, now…” His voice is fond, and teasing, and as he turns to you fully, he looks at you with what might almost be called curiosity. “I hope you enjoy yourself. I’ll be at home with the little ones, but my wife makes the best damn mead you’ll find...and don’t let these miscreants tell you otherwise!”   
  
The three of them share a laugh before the man leaves, and you glance at Nyx curiously, waiting for the explanation you assume is coming.   
  
“Festivals back home involved a lot of drinking-”    
  
“-like they don’t here?” Pelna interjects, rolling his eyes -- but after the look Nyx shoots him, he quiets.   
  
Nyx continues. “They involved a lot of drinking because brewing is a traditional craft. Especially mead; you’ve probably heard about Galahdian honey, right?”   
  
You nibble on the candy stick idly. “Maybe?” You hazard.   
  
He shrugs, stepping in closer so he can wrap an arm around you. On impulse, you hook a finger through his belt loop; it earns you a kiss pressed to the top of your head.   
  
“Well, besides having native plants that don’t like to grow anywhere less wet, we’ve got our own species of bees. Mostly the burrowing kinds, but some that build nests, too, and beekeeping is important.”   
  
Pelna laughs. “And  _ hard _ , you remember when-”   
  
“-when Libertus tried to keep some, and it went right to hell in short order? Like I’d forget!” Nyx all but cackles. “C’mon, you remember who had to help him clean up that mess...ugh! All the half-rotted leaves inside, and the poor, dead bees…”   
  
Grimacing, Pelna gestures to a store to the left. “Yeah, well, idiots who can’t weatherproof and don’t think to keep an eye on their hives aside, we got bigger things to worry about.”   
  
You follow his gaze. There’s not much in the way of indicators about what’s  _ within _ the little shop, but from Nyx’s rueful laugh, you can only surmise it’s not something they’re looking forward to.   
  
“C’mon,” he says, “time for Pelna’s favorite part.”   
  
_ That _ elicits a wounded sound from the man in question, even going so far as to clutch at his chest dramatically. “Oh! How  _ cruel _ ! After I try so hard to be pretty, and all for you…” He bats his eyes at Nyx cartoonishly; it earns him a soft smack between his shoulderblades as Nyx leads you past him.

You can't help laughing at his antics, though, and the triumphant grin he wears warms you through once again as you stuff the last of the candy stick in your mouth and lick your fingers clean.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The shop inside is lined with garments hanging along the walls -- most of them tunics and dresses, simplistic in construction but lavishly embroidered. If you didn’t know better, you might expect it’s machine-work, but behind the half-counter you can see a little old woman hunched over a wooden frame, stitching away.   


"Wipe your boots," she says shortly without looking up.

You freeze. You're not wearing boots, and it's not rainy today...nor is it dusty, really. There's nothing to wipe.

Nyx nudges you inside further with a laugh. "Don't tell me you're senile already, granny. And when I brought someone to meet you, too…"

She bristles at that. "Granny?  _ Granny? _ I'll show  _ you _ a granny, you naughty boy!"

As she grouses at him, she finally sets aside the frame, rising from her hunched position and stretching gradually to her full height.

She doesn't quite stand as tall as your shoulder.   
  
As tiny as she is, thin and almost frail-seeming, she’s not nearly so breakable as you’d first thought. She steps around the half-counter with an even, confident stride, and you can see the movement of sinewy muscle underneath her body that’s soft and drooping with age.   
  
You can’t even begin to guess how old she is -- her skin is a deep brown, much like Pelna’s, and her hair is a stark silver-white twisted into a low bun -- but her face, although it’s lined with age, seems somehow timeless. She could be sixty or she could be a hundred. For a moment you consider uncomfortably that she looks to be not only in better health than the king, she almost seems  _ younger _ , although you’re sure she isn’t.   
  
Only her gnarled hands and hunched back give away the countless decades of fine work...although you can’t focus on those for long, as your eyes rove over the elaborate patterns that decorate her own garments with motifs you can’t begin to understand -- but certainly appreciate the beauty of, at least.

Pelna comes from seemingly nowhere, stepping around you to stoop and kiss her cheek. "It's good to see you, auntie."

She allows the kiss, but waves him off with a grumble before starting in on him with a peevish tone. "Is this why you've come? Not to visit your poor old great-aunt, all alone in a strange and foreign city, but to flaunt your youth with not one, but  _ two _ pretty partners?"

Nyx sighs. "C'mon, granny. You already know me and Pelna-"

She cuts him off with a sharp look.

He steps behind you slightly, nudging you forward to an incredulous look from Pelna.   
  
Even you’re a bit taken aback that Nyx, always the first to jump in, seems to be using you as a shield for a change...but you hide the grin that threatens behind one hand.

"Look, we're here to bring her.  _ I'm _ taking her to the festival, and she needs proper clothes." He leans closer until he can wrap his arms around your thick body from behind, resting his chin on your head.

"It's her first time, auntie," Pelna adds solicitously. “And you  _ are _ the greatest at your craft, we all know that.”   
  
Nyx makes a noise of agreement, and although their fervor is almost comical, you can’t help but nod with them, swept up by their earnestness.   


You swallow. The old woman's gaze is sharp as she looks you over, but it's impossible to tell if she likes or dislikes what she sees.

Her gaze lingers on your pants for a long moment -- and suddenly you recall the decorated seams of Pelna's matching pair.

Finally, she nods. "Alright."

You chew on your lower lip as she watches you expectantly; whatever you're supposed to say or do, you can't even begin to guess.

She huffs impatiently.

"Well?" She demands. "What are you trying to show?"

You crane your neck to look up at Nyx helplessly...and are momentarily horrified when he kisses your head and releases you, clearly making for the door. "Sorry, sweetheart, can't help you there...take good care of her, Pelna."

They share a mischievous grin as Nyx ducks back out of the shop.

You turn to Pelna, pleading with your eyes.

He grins. "Alright, now we're talking...and I've got an idea already."

Despite your best efforts, a nervous giggle escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth with one hand. You're not sure you like the unabashed  _ glee _ in his expression.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


  
Pelna perches on a stool next to the counter as the old lady grabs a fabric tape to measure you with, instructing you shortly to raise your arms and stand still.   
  
“Hmm,” he muses as he watches. “You like flowers, right? And nature?”   
  
You nod. “I grew up in a rural area, so nature’s…” For a few seconds, you cast about for words, but finally settle for “...it’s home.”   
  
He grins and nods to himself, crossing his arms over his chest.   
  
The old woman scoffs. “But what do you  _ want _ ?”   
  
Desperately, you look to Pelna for any clarity, as she reaches around you to circle your waist with the tape measure...or  _ tries _ to, anyway. As he opens his mouth -- hopefully to elaborate -- she talks right over him.   
  
“Come here. You do it.”   
  
You turn slightly, just enough to give her an incredulous look. Pelna doesn’t touch you; you’ve been thoroughly under the impression that he only touches the people he’s close to, and that’s...well, that’s definitely not you. You barely know each other, yet!   
  
“I can’t reach, so you’d better make yourself useful,” she continues. “Or are you going to refuse to help your frail, old great-aunt, you wicked, naughty-”   
  
Pelna rises, holding his hands up pleadingly. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it, auntie.” He sighs and accepts the tape from her as she steps back behind the counter, settling in and pulling the embroidery frame back to herself to work.   
  
She scoffs. “Do it  _ right _ ,” she says without looking up.   
  
He makes an exasperated noise in response, but gives you a smile that seems like it’s meant to be reassuring -- and it might be, if he didn’t look so tense.   
  
The silence builds.   
  
It’s probably only a second or two, but your eyes meet, and your gut twists uncomfortably, and you blurt out without thinking “I want Nyx.”   
  
The old lady throws her head back and lets out a wheezing cackle; you’re not sure if that’s what makes Pelna twitch slightly, or what you said, but he smiles at you warm and fond like he looked before you came in the shop, and leans in to wrap his arms around you so he can pass the tape around your waist. There’s no way to entirely avoid touching you, but his fingers just barely brush against you -- and as ever, he holds his body away from you as best he can, the slightest gap still between your torsos.   
  
You stare straight ahead at the wall, eyes roving over the delicately-stitched designs, as you feel his breath on your neck.   
  
If things were different…   
  
He’s sweet and charming and funny, and you really hope he’ll be friends with you someday. He’s been excellent company, and terribly kind. You’re grateful.   
  
But things aren’t different, and all that’s going to be between the two of you is friendship -- at least, you hope he’ll be friends with you. Admittedly, you’re not sure what he considers to be the point of friendship, but you have a feeling it might take a bit more effort than Libertus and Crowe...you’re pretty sure it takes more effort with  _ most _ people than Libertus and Crowe, though. Something about the pair of them reminds you of stray cats, come to think of it...   
  
Pelna doesn’t linger, even if the split second he’s so close feels longer than it should. But he reads off the number on the tape as if it were no more meaningful than remarking on the weather, and the old lady scribbles something on a notepad, and you spare a moment to think how nice it is for people not to consider your size worthy of comment.   
  
The door creaks open behind you, presumably admitting someone, although the old lady doesn’t look up or address whoever it is this time.   
  
As Pelna reaches around you again to settle the tape higher, just under your bust, he continues speaking blandly, as if you hadn’t suddenly blurted out something obvious and then gotten weird about everything. “What else? You seem pretty lonely. You ever want a family?”   
  
The door bangs shut again suddenly. You twitch and crane your neck to look...but no one’s there to see the way your face starts to burn.   
  
“I-maybe? I...I don’t know! Someday, maybe?” You squeeze your eyes shut and wiggle your toes in your shoes, trying not to fidget any further than that.

There's a loud  _ thunk _ from behind the counter. Pelna glances over just as the old woman coughs conspicuously.

"Sorry," he mutters to you. "That was probably a bit too…"

You can't help the rueful chuckle. "A bit."

He reads off the number again, and shifts the tape up once again, even more delicate this time.

The door creaks again. "Feeling up my girl already? C'mon, I was only gone a few minutes…"

Nyx sidles up behind you to plaster himself along your back and kiss the top of your head. When Pelna doesn't move right away, hands hovering midair as he stares blankly at Nyx, the latter chuckles. "What, d’you want a kiss too? Guess you better c'mere, then."

Pelna ducks the hand Nyx tries to wrap around the back of his neck -- the motion leaves his face inches from your chest, close enough to feel his shaky sigh on your cleavage, but even in the cramped position he cinches the tape and reads off the number breathlessly, before making for the counter.

Nyx just laughs again and wraps his arms around you. "Have a good time while I was gone?"

From behind the counter you hear a scoffing noise. "She might've, if my idiot nephew  _ explained _ things."

Sighing, Nyx releases you with a tender press of his lips to your temple.   
  
“Alright,” he starts, taking one of your hands and leading you to the nearest wall. You spare a moment to be grateful that Nyx, at least, takes time to explain things sensibly. “The designs that are embroidered have meaning...like wishes for the future. Health, fortune, strength, protection…”   
  
“ _ Fertility _ ,” adds the old woman, sounding smug.   
  
“...yeah, that too,” Nyx agrees tightly.   
  
You stare at the fabric, tracing the stitches with your eyes, and trying to keep your breathing even. It mostly works.   
  
“The color can change the meaning, or at least add context and detail to it. You pick the designs based on the kind of future you want -- it’s a way to write your own destiny.” He grins at you, that tender smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle; you let out a shaky sigh and lean against him.   
  
Something flickers in his expression, but he doesn’t protest. He just pulls you closer, and pets your hair gently as you regard the beautifully-decorated garments.   
  
“...I don’t want to be alone anymore,” you start. From somewhere behind and to the side, you hear Pelna make a noise you can’t interpret, just as Nyx sucks in a breath. His hand stills its motion for the slightest fraction of a second before picking up again.   
  
But no one interrupts. They give you space to feel things out, slow as it is.   
  
“I...want to have enough. I don’t need a lot, but enough to be comfortable…”   
  
Nyx’s fingers trail down to the back of your neck, shifting your hair aside so he can rub lightly at your skin; the motion is surprisingly soothing, reminding you to breathe deeper.   
  
You nod slowly. “I don’t want what’s important to me to be taken away.” Glancing up at Nyx, you frown. “I want you to be safe...but that’s probably not something  _ I’d  _ wear, right?”   
  
He cups your cheeks, leaning down to press a feather-light kiss to your lips. The touch lingers; as much as you’d like to lean in further, to kiss him properly, he’s gentle but firm as he holds you in his grip. “I think they know what you mean, and how to do it right.”   
  
A voice comes from the vicinity of your elbow, making you jump.   
  
“I know what I’m doing...now, just a few more things.” As Nyx releases you, she all but shoves the measuring tape into his hands. “ _ You _ do it, and don’t dither about. Understood?”   
  
He grins. “Of course, granny.”   
  
And true to his word, he doesn’t dither...although he does steal a kiss from you as he aligns the tape measure along your shoulders, and he certainly does cop a feel when measuring your hips... _ and _ as he crouches to measure your inseam, although you don’t manage to stifle the squawk, which attracts the old lady’s ire.   
  
“No canoodling!”   
  
Nyx doesn’t even apologize, grinning up at you so wickedly you half-expect him to do it again even  _ with _ an audience.   
  
Thankfully, he doesn’t. He simply reads off the last of the numbers and stands with a soft grunt -- a reminder that he’s still recovering, which has you at his elbow in an instant.    
  
His attempts to wave you off can’t stop your fretting this time. There’s no market to distract you, and wherever Pelna is right now, he’s not nearby to lighten the mood. You watch Nyx with concern. “Shit, you’re still hurt. We should go.” You frown. “You’re gonna rest in bed, mister. And if you even  _ think _ about exerting yourself tonight…”   
  
You never get the chance to finish the threat, the whole train of thought falling away as he claims your lips once more in a lingering kiss that tastes of candy and coffee and  _ Nyx _ .   
  
“You know the royal medics have access to potions, right?” he asks quizzically, when you finally part. He tugs his shirt up to show you a scattering of shiny pink scars, looking weeks old already…   
  
You trail awed fingertips over them.   
  
Royal magic...royal  _ medics _ ...you’ve never had access to things like that, or known anyone who did. But seeing the evidence of that incredible power writ large on his skin, you think you can understand, just a little bit, why Niflheim’s rulers would want such a thing, too.   
  
“Well…” you mutter, the worry that had overtaken you slowly dissipating into a vague uneasiness, “...you should still take it easy.”   
  
You probably shouldn’t sound so grumpy; your mother would have some things to say about how sullen you sound, but Nyx just laughs.   
  
He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Guess you better be careful with me, huh?” His eyes burn into you; there’s desire, and what you suspect to be love, and a lot more as he watches the flush spread over your cheeks and down your neck.   
  
And all you can do is nod.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this chapter was a whole-ass trip, so I hope it hits the spot lol.
> 
> Hope you like Pelna's great-aunt tho! She's influenced in no small part by several women I've known, as well as Maria from RWBY. I suspect she'll be something of a recurring character -- she'll certainly appear in some later parts and/or oneshots that fill in what all went down with Nyx and Pelna back in the day, and since she is yet another bull-in-the-china-shop sort, she may be helpful for keeping the plot moving at times.
> 
> The summer solstice festival draws ever closer! There will probably be at least two more chapters before we get to it, and possibly more, but I promise we'll get there. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, as well as leaving comments and kudos. It means the world to me, and helps motivate me to keep going with what is the longest WIP I've ever written (even if we're counting long-since-deleted works from fifteen years ago).


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wondering how Nyx got from the hospital to the market in the Galahdian district? Anyone curious about how much of Reader's discussion with Pelna he was privy to? Your answers lie within!

It’s not  _ that _ far to walk back home after he’s released, only a few miles; ordinarily he’d insist on walking home, but something about his most recent brush with danger has Nyx feeling…   
  
... _ compliant _ might be a stretch, but something near enough to it that he agrees to the nurse’s insistence that he call someone to give him a ride, or at least take the bus.   
  
And since he doesn’t know anyone with a car -- not in a city like Insomnia -- the bus is the only real choice. Not like he’s going to call the prince of Lucis and ask if he can get a ride home, after all, even if the kid is a good sport about lending out the car he barely uses when someone else needs it.    
  
It’s almost a shame, he thinks idly, that the prince isn’t around for training anymore.   
  
Once they’d gotten past his stubborn pride, he’d been a hard worker...and the naked  _ joy _ when he finally mastered something, at least before he quashed it behind the typical sullen pout, was surprisingly endearing.   
  
They’d had some good conversations, eating lunch on top of the training grounds and watching flocks of birds overhead.   
  
But good conversation and training don’t make for a real relationship, even if they’re sort-of on a first-name basis. And besides that, Nyx doesn’t mind taking the bus; it’s nice, actually, to be able to spend time relaxing and watching the city flow by.   
  
Of course, there’s an old woman two rows ahead who keeps twisting in her seat to give him the stink-eye, but he’s long since gotten used to that. He smiles at her, and holds back the laugh that threatens as she glares at him indignantly.   
  
Insomnians are exhausting…   
  
His stop comes first, unfortunately, which means passing by her again -- she shrinks back against the wall of the bus almost comically, which he has to fight not to roll his eyes at, but he doesn’t listen to the impulse to address her. ‘Just keep walking,’ a part of him that sounds more than a bit like the Captain says, and he does.   
  
It’s better, after all, not to risk starting something. Her prejudice isn’t uncommon, even if she’s more overt about it than most, and today of all days, Nyx doesn’t want to get into any arguments. Especially with the way the rest of the passengers eyed him more covertly; he’d figured out in a matter of seconds that there wasn’t going to be anyone coming to his defense if she did say something.   
  
Still, no one says anything as he gets off the bus…   
  
...and it’s only two blocks and around a corner, barely a minute or two, before he can finally breathe deep and let the tension bleed out of his body.   
  
It’s sunny and bright out, enough to make him squint a bit when he turns toward the sound of shrieking laughter down the way; he can’t help but grin as he sees a gaggle of kids dangling precariously off a balcony, with the help of a few obviously-purloined ropes.   
  
As they jostle each other (accidentally,  _ mostly _ ), there are a few times one or another starts to slip, threatening to fall through the canopy over the booth below…   
  
Nyx wanders closer, ready to grope for a dagger if need be. He’d rather not do something like warping in public, and he  _ really _ shouldn’t, as drained as he still is -- but if the alternative is to let someone get hurt, his choice is already made.   
  
He studiously avoids considering too closely that the same choice is the reason he’s in the state he’s in, and he’d decided only twenty minutes prior to at least try to be more careful with himself.   
  
For _______’s sake, at the very least; the thought of what she’ll say to him as things already stand has him on edge, and he’s not keen to give her any more reason to worry.   
  
But…   
  
...at the same time…   
  
...they’re  _ kids _ . He can’t just ignore the possibility that something could happen.   
  
A bit of motion in an alley draws his eye away from them for a split second -- long enough for the kids to right themselves, it seems, although Nyx can barely keep even a peripheral focus on that as his eyes settle on the two figures in the alley.   
  
“That fucker,” he mutters, earning a disapproving tut from the old man behind the nearest stall.   
  
Of course it’s none other than Pelna in the mouth of the alley, and  _ wearing his sweatshirt _ . He really should’ve known that’s where it went, as soon as it disappeared a couple of months back; he’d half-assumed it was Pelna already, but he hadn’t found any  _ proof _ his friend’s old habit of running off with his clothes was alive and well.   
  
At least until now, anyway.   
  
As he stalks closer, though, Pelna finally sees him, and shakes his head subtly...Nyx follows his gaze, eyeing the girl Pelna’s with…   
  
And stares.   
  
It’s _______, it has to be, but she looks -- well, not actually  _ that _ different, he supposes. It's the first time he's seen her in casual clothes, though, and she looks _good_ in the light tanktop and pair of joggers...there’s what looks like a sports bra peeking around the neckline, and he can’t help wondering what it would be like to peel her out of her clothes and see what’s underneath…   
  
Of course, another thought occurs almost immediately; how fun it might be to try exercising with her. She’s mentioned wanting to get more active, and not knowing where to start. Maybe…   
  
...well, it’s something to file away for later, anyway.   
  
He’s not sure why Pelna doesn’t want him around, but he slinks behind a stall to watch. With the bright sun, it’s doubtful _______ will notice him back here, and he can enjoy the sight of two of his favorite people for a little while.   
  
Her hair is definitely different...but is it different because she’s here to meet Pelna? Or is she just trying another style? The soft waves are pretty, framing her round, sweet face perfectly.   
  
Somehow, the thought of her dressing up for Pelna doesn’t bother him at all…   
  
But, then, they’ve been friends forever, and it’s clear from the way he talks with her, loping along easily and laughing without reservation, that Pelna likes her. That’s a good sign; Crowe and Libertus are quick enough to like or dislike someone, and he was confident they’d like _______, but Pelna can take a while to warm up to someone.   
  
Of course, there’s the question of when exactly they met, if they’re so familiar with each other already. Pelna’s awfully relaxed with her, actually, even if he’s keeping his usual physical distance -- and of course, just as Nyx starts to ponder that, the pair pass by, and pause.   
  
Pelna says something to her just beyond the edge of his hearing, and she closes her eyes…   
  
“He’s  _ not _ …” Nyx breathes, barely believing what he’s witnessing.   
  
Fiercely-private Pelna, who keeps his business his own and takes forever to actually talk about his past -- draws a fine, glimmering chain from his pocket.   
  
Nyx blinks, momentarily distracted. They’re wearing the same pants, Pelna and _______, aren’t they? Come to think of it, Libertus had been working on Pelna’s a couple months back, hadn’t he? One evening in the apartment, probably while he’d been complaining to his friends about not knowing what to do about ______…   
  
He grins and crosses his arms over his chest with satisfaction. At least things worked out well. He’s not all that hopeless after all, it seems.

He watches as Pelna coils the chain in her palm. Across the way, Nyx can see a couple of teenagers eyeing them, looking as dumbfounded as he feels; this is a big gesture of trust, more than ________ can possibly know, and it's clear from the tightness in Pelna's expression that he's pushing himself.

For a moment, as much as he loves her, Nyx wants to whisk the chain away from _____'s grasp. Pelna doesn't need his protection anymore. He knows that. But some things are easier to let go of than others, and as much as it takes him by surprise, the impulse is still there.

But it's not his choice to make.

He ambles along the covered sidewalk between the booths and shops, instead, offering somewhat-distracted greetings to anyone he passes, and never looking away from the pair in the sun for long.

They look well together. Better than he does with her, probably.

Probably better than he's ever looked with either of them, actually; Pelna's handsome in the kind of way Insomnians like, even if he (still) doesn’t style his unruly, curly mop of hair. He's the sort who can blend into a mixed crowd easily, despite the thick scar running up one cheek...and that charmingly crooked smile doesn't hurt -- even after all this time, Nyx can't help but admit (to himself, at least) the sight of that smirk leaves him a bit short of breath.  
  
And ______, well...she's soft and plump, with the kind of generous curves he’s seen in pictures of Accordan art, the old masterpieces from so long ago, and a sweet, expressive face. She’s breathtakingly beautiful, especially with the sun picking up the natural highlights in her hair, and making her squint just a bit and scrunch her nose up adorably…   
  
He has a feeling he knows why Pelna’s with her now, though. Crowe’s chain is long since gone, discarded years ago, and Libertus has never had one.   
  
Of course, Nyx can’t help but feel the  _ slightest _ bit irritated; he’d planned to bring her shopping himself. It’s not like he doesn’t know what to look for, or how to explain things, and after all,  _ he’s _ the one she’s seeing! And it’s not like Pelna to butt into someone else’s relationship like this, either. As meddlesome as he can be, he’s at least more respectful about his meddling than Crowe (mostly).   
  
No, it’s definitely a bit odd for him to be so invested. Nyx isn’t weird for thinking it’s weird. He’s confident in that.   
  
It doesn’t take long for the two of them to wander over to the Kanevs’ booth, though, and he creeps  _ just _ a bit closer around the back, enough that he can listen in a bit. Rosalia’s running the shop today, it seems, given the gasp and rapturous “ _ Oh _ , you  _ didn’t,  _ you can’t have!”   
  
A woman passing by with a paper-wrapped parcel pauses to peek around the edge of the canopy, rolling her eyes. She shares a look with Nyx, and a wry grin, before continuing on her way.   
  
In the little booth, Rosalia continues blithely, her volume rising without her notice as usual.  “All this time, and you’re finally going to-”   
  
She squawks.   
  
“Nuh-uh, don’t even start.” Nyx hears Pelna say. It sounds more fond than irritated...although there’s a hint of temper there, too.   
  
He’d like to see what _______ chooses...well, he’d like to see her _choose_ , actually. And even if Pelna wanted to handle this alone, whatever his reasons, Nyx isn’t about to miss an occasion like this -- it’s thrilling, like walking over the edge of a cliff and feeling the ground drop away, knowing that she’s doing it, that she’s going to take part in the festival, that she  _ wants this _ …   
  
No, he can’t let himself miss this.   
  
Maybe Pelna wanted to gift it to her as a surprise, and didn’t want him to interfere. Nyx purses his lips as he mulls the thought over. It’s not like he would’ve fought Pelna on it, really; it would be a bit unconventional, but not unheard of or unreasonable. And he doesn’t seem like the sort who would refuse to let someone else give his...whatever she is, a gift, does he?   
  
That’s enough to make him pause as he rounds the corner, just shy of stepping back into the sun.   
  
_ Does _ he seem like that? Has he been possessive? He hadn’t introduced her to the others, really, but that was more to avoid overwhelming her than anything; she can be so skittish when she’s not sure how she’ll be received, and he didn’t want her uncomfortable when she met his friends. It had seemed better to let them get to know each other in controlled circumstances, one or two at a time.   
  
Just as soon as he got back, he’d been planning to start making an effort to introduce her -- over dinners, he’d decided, nice casual affairs that she wouldn’t feel pressured by.   
  
But for all his care, it doesn’t seem like it’s mattered, if she’s already met them -- and he can only assume she has, if she’s wandering around the market with Pelna.   
  
It’s only been a few days! He’s barely been gone!   
  
The realization that he’s jealous hits knocks him on his ass harder than any daemon’s ever managed to.   
  
That has to be what it is, though; this sick, roiling feeling that makes him want to claw his own suddenly-ill-fitting skin off.  _ Jealousy _ . Nyx runs a hand through his hair (and resists the urge to fist his hand in it and pull until the pain drowns out the restlessness).   
  
“ _ Shit _ ,” he mutters.   
  
Now what?   
  
And what does he even have to be jealous of? So what if Pelna’s stepped up to help? So what if ______ met his friends without him? He’s not scared she’ll prefer them to him -- that, at least, is an insecurity he doesn’t have. And he’s not scared she’ll hate them so much she’ll leave him. So what does he have to worry about?   
  
He paces in the short space between two booths, only three clipped strides in either direction but still enough to help allay the desperate urge to  _ move _ .   
  
_______ loves him. He’s sure of that. And he loves her.   
  
But he loves Pelna, too. He  _ trusts _ Pelna.   
  
Most importantly, he trusts Pelna to take care of ______. They’re good together, he can tell that much already. Even if they’ve barely spent time together, they get along well enough that it would be hard for most outsiders to tell how short a time it’s truly been by looking at them.   
  
He freezes part-way through a turn and stumbles, narrowly avoiding crashing into a boy exiting the library. “Sorry,” he murmurs, holding out a hand in apology. The boy clasps it and grins at him before running off down the street.   
  
Nyx rubs his hands slowly over his face, and lets out a shaky sigh.   
  
Is this all because he feels left out?   
  
As soon as he thinks the words, he knows they’re true -- he doesn’t mind Pelna helping, he just wants to be a part of ______’s introduction to Galahd. He wants to  _ be there _ , so that at the festival next month and every other one they may celebrate together in the future, when he sees her in all her finery he can remember those first moments as she learned about his home.  
  
He can't let that go, no matter what Pelna or the others might want.  
  
Before he’s thought it all the way through, he steps into the street and rounds the corner of the booth; he doesn’t approach directly, not yet. She’s bent over the table, scrutinizing the dishes of charms, and there’s no way he’s going to interrupt her train of thought.   
  
In the booth, Rosalia perks up at the sight of him. “Can I help you find something?” She asks politely -- for a moment he wants to laugh and tease her. Just because they’re cousins, however distant, doesn’t mean she has to be more polite with him than others...but it would disturb ______, so he winks at her and presses a finger to his lips.   
  
Her eyes go as wide as saucers as she nods fervently.   
  
He glances to Pelna for the briefest of seconds, but _____ turns to regard Pelna at the same time, breathless with excitement. “Is it...too much to pick these?” She asks, soft and nervous in the way that always makes him want to sweep her into his arms and kiss her worries away…   
  
...but now’s not the time, he should let her think.   
  
“...it’s probably silly, right?”   
  
The way she deflates under the weight of her own fears  _ hurts _ . Pelna watches her with thinly-veiled concern, and it’s not like Nyx knows what to say at times like these, so maybe he should just let Pelna do something; it seems like every else is better at this than he is, after all.   
  
But he says nothing as she continues, too caught up in her anxiety to notice how even Rosalia’s shifted forward on her stool. “Flowers, for something like this..." She trails off with a resigned sigh. "Maybe I should just-”   
  
He can’t stand it.   
  
Nyx steps in close behind _____ and wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. “You’ll look perfect,” he assures her.   
  
She freezes -- and Pelna grins -- and just as Nyx is about to kiss her hair, she wrenches herself away and whirls on him.   
  
“What are you doing out of bed?” She demands. “You were in surgery last night! You should be  _ resting _ !” Her soft face is drawn into a scowl, scrutinizing him as if there might be some sign of...something.   
  
Shrugging, Nyx draws a breath to explain about potions and royal magic -- but he doesn’t have time to even open his mouth before she’s standing on her tiptoes to cup his cheeks in her adorably chubby palms. “ _ If you’re pretending to be okay, so help me, I’ll- _ ”   
  
He wraps his arms around her waist to steady her and leans in to slot his mouth against hers in a tender kiss. Pelna makes a noise -- at least, he thinks it’s Pelna, although it might just as well be Rosalia for all that he paid attention to what it sounded like -- but no one interrupts them as she sighs against his lips and absolutely melts.   
  
She’s so responsive; more than just about anyone she’s ever kissed...although there have been a few who came close, Pelna included. But _____ is her own kind of amorous, sweet and yielding and warm and  _ perfect _ .   
  
If they weren’t in the market, he’d tease at her lips with his tongue until they parted for him, or maybe work a hand under her shirt to tweak at her nipples and make her whine-   
  
The children across the street shriek with laughter and mock-revulsion, and Nyx remembers just how much they are in the market right now. A very public market, in the middle of the day, in full view of anyone and everyone.   
  
Rosalia clears her throat, and Nyx takes it as a cue to let _____ finish her shopping. He steps back (although not without a parting kiss to the top of her head), and nudges her back toward the booth with an open palm rested against her back. As attentive as ever, Rosalia’s laid the chain and charms out on a tray, displaying them in a facsimile of how they’ll look when finished.   
  
He grins. It really is perfect.   
  
“That what you had in mind?”   
  
______ stiffens, twining her hands together. “Maybe I should…” she starts.   
  
But she doesn’t continue -- instead, she sucks in a breath, rolls her shoulders, and nods. “It’s perfect.”   
  
Nyx isn’t quite sure how to feel that she looks to Pelna first, before him, but she meets his eyes and smiles and it’s only a bit shaky. “That’s what I want,” she says. He can hear the determination in her voice.   
  
He glances up at Pelna -- something unspoken passes between them, a soft sort of melancholy. There are so many memories, so much in the past that’s tainted festivals for both of them...but with this, with _____, it doesn't hurt like it has before.   
  
He smiles. “Then that’s the one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is _also_ going to be Nyx POV, for chapter 12. Fingers crossed that it gets done in the next couple of days!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, and leaving comments and kudos. Your enthusiasm and engagement helps me fight the doubt-daemons that can make this hobby of mine hard.


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